


Bite Me (An Intentionally Ridiculous Drabble Fic [Complete])

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Drinking, Drabble, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Light Masochism, Romance, Smut, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 126
Words: 79,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Hermione still can't believe she's been turned, even after being helped out of her own grave. Desperate to keep her situation secret, she must depend on the last person she should trust. Her unexpected rescuer being none other than Lucius Malfoy, she has no idea that he has his own reasons for keeping her newly-changed existence to himself.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, vampire Malfoy OC/Muggle vampire OC
Comments: 645
Kudos: 535





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> This occurred to me when Quarantine started (myself and many other writers experienced a sudden creative shut down when the news hit). Something non-serious, something I could just jot down in quick spurts and share with you daily while isolation protocols continued. From there, I thought 'we don't see a whole lot of vampire!Hermione . . . . Oh, well, if I'm going to write a non-serious vampire!Hermione fic, then it's got to be a Lumione, because my Lucius fancast (Alexander Skarsgard) is most famous for playing a vampire, that's kind of inherently humorous.' And here we are.
> 
> Because I made this up as I sat down to write each day with no set-out storyline, things get a little goofy here & there. This was a creative exercise to reset my brain and lure the other plunnies back into the open.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit—in any form—from this work.

**Chapter One**

She was in a box . . . .

Hermione couldn't quite remember how or when she'd gotten into this pitch-black rectangle of wood, though she tried desperately to recall any scrap of information as she ran one hand across the rough surface above her and scrambled to search for her wand with the other.

Her weapon was missing, but of course it was. Bloody hell.

She tried to keep her breathing low and steady, but panic was welling up in her chest. "Stay calm, Hermione, stay calm." But honestly, she was kicking herself a bit. She knew Wizarding London was not the same place it had been before the War. Voldemort had been defeated, but the darkness left in his wake had scarred their community. She'd left because of it, gone to Paris and Hong Kong, and so many places happy for the assistance of a 'brilliant war hero.'

Somehow, she'd been unable to avoid a desire to come home for long.

Pursing her trembling lips, she sniffled. "Had to get homesick, didn't you?"

Bracing her palms against the wooden ceiling, she pushed with all her strength, but after a little give, it wouldn't budge. Letting it drop back the increments she'd managed to force it upward brought something falling through the slats onto her face.

Brushing it away, she realized it was dirt. She wasn't simply in a box. She was buried in a coffin. Shabby, hastily-constructed, but a coffin nonetheless. How the bloody hell . . . ? And _why?_ Hermione considered that the poor quality meant she could possibly break out with enough effort, but she had no way to know how deep she was buried. There could be a foot of dirt over her or six.

If she could only remember why this had happened to her . . . . Had she seen or heard something she wasn't supposed to? Where had she been _exactly_?

 _Nothing._ The time between arriving at Diagon Alley to do a bit of shopping before heading to The Leaky Cauldron and opening her eyes to the blackness now surrounding her was a complete blank.

She had no choice. It would use up a good portion of whatever oxygen she had left, but she was going to have to scream her head off like an idiot and _hope_ someone heard her.

* * *

Grey eyes narrowed, scanning the graveyard's bleak and dismal landscape. What was that sound? If Lucius didn't know better, he'd think it his father sniping at him from the beyond for the disgrace of being a pure-blood wizard whose wife left him. _Such a Muggle thing_ , he'd have said in a voice dripping with scorn. She'd actually left a few years ago, he simply hadn't had the stomach to say the words aloud sooner. Especially not here, staring at the headstone of his too-proud father.

He couldn't blame Narcissa for going. If he could've left _himself_ after the War, he'd have done so in a heartbeat.

"Oh, shut up," he said to the grave—words he'd never have dared to breathe when Abraxas had been alive. This was what he got for following some stupid tradition of visiting graves on birthdays.

Yet as he turned away, he heard it again. That sound . . . he strained to listen. That wasn't his imagination, and it _certainly_ wasn't his father.

Drawing his wand, he waited for more sounds to give him a direction.

* * *

Hermione was sobbing by the time the coffin lid lightened against her hands. Putting the last of her strength into forcing it upward, she was rewarded with another sprinkle of dirt raining down on her.

Coughing and waving her hands before her face, she was not prepared for the tug of a _Levicorpus_ lifting her from the box. The caster set her on the ground with an indelicate _thud_ —an abrupt dispelment probably caused by shock.

"Miss Granger?"

She heard the surprised whisper from somewhere very near her face. That voice was familiar.

Blinking open her eyes, she stared back in disbelief. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Of _all_ the people to come to her rescue!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Those always-suspicious grey eyes narrowed, sweeping over her as he reflexively offered his hand. The gesture nearly made her laugh—he was a gentleman in spite of himself. She was covered in dirt, a _dreaded_ Mudblood, and he was helping her to her feet after having accidentally dropped her on the ground.

"You're chilled to the bone. What in God's name happened?" he asked, again surprising her as he removed his cloak to drape around her..

She shook her head, trying not to wobble. "I can't remember."

"You're injured." Again he looked her over. "I'll escort you to St. Mungo's."

"Injured?" Hermione blinked up at him, trying to make sense of things. He must think she'd hit her head. It was night, why was her vision so crisp? His features were clear as if in daylight.

Maybe she had hit her head, then.

She followed numbly as he took her arm and started guiding her toward the path out of the graveyard. "I don't . . . I don't feel like I'm injured," she observed quietly.

He stopped so abruptly that she started in response. Perhaps the witch was traumatized and shock had forced her to forget whatever happened to her? "Miss Granger?" he spoke slow and careful. "You're _covered_ in blood."

Chestnut eyes shot wide as she turned her attention to herself. Lifting her arms from beneath his cloak, she saw crimson spatters decorating her sleeves, her palms. "I don't understand." Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "I don't feel hurt, but—"

"Perhaps you're in shock?" he offered, voicing his thought from seconds ago. Or that wasn't her blood, not that _that_ made much sense—he'd found her in a grave, it was more likely she'd been left for dead than that she somehow managed to get someone _else's_ blood all over her and then buried _herself_ in a box in the ground.

She nodded numbly. "Perhaps." Hermione started with the top of her head, circling her fingers in light motions, checking for sore spots or tenderness. She didn't want to go to St. Mungo's if she was mostly unharmed—and she didn't want to go _anywhere_ if this was someone else's blood until she remembered what the hell happened!

"I don't seem to—" Her voice dropped when she reached her neck. "Wait." The skin felt tacky, like drying syrup dripped over the side of her throat. She snatched her hands away, her fingers trembling. "Oh, God!"

Lucius cast a glance about, the last thing he needed was for some hapless passerby to believe he was doing something untoward to the young woman. "Miss Granger, _please_ get a hold of yourself." He lifted his wand. " _Lumos_."

She flinched, shielding her gaze from the flash of illumination with her hand. This was getting ridiculous. Yes, she'd been trapped in a pitch-black box, but she didn't recall a light spell being so very bright. It hurt her eyes.

"Let me see," he said, his voice low, uncharacteristically gentle.

Cognizant he was trying to help, she tipped her head opposite the wound. Though she couldn't see her own marred skin, she was very aware of him sweeping her wild hair out of his way.

Very aware of his fingertips moving around the wound in delicate sweeps. Why was his skin _so_ warm?

"I won't lie, this looks _bad_." Thoughtless, he pressed close to her, trying to get a better look. He was oblivious to the way her eyes glazed over, her attention fixed on his throat.

He had no idea how the thudding of his pulse made her skin tingle, nor how her mouth watered at the sound—at his nearness.

"Dear God!"

She snapped back to her senses at his declaration. What was that? Oh, she _must've_ hit her head!

Meeting his eyes in a daze, she asked, "What?"

Lucius seemed just as dazed as he once more pressed his fingers to her neck, his voice escaping in a breathless whisper while he double-checked, "Miss Granger . . . . You've no pulse."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

He groused and grumbled, the unconscious witch cradled in his arms as he appeared at the manor. Well, at least he _hoped_ she was unconscious, lest he find himself lugging about a corpse. The fact that the woman hadn't had a pulse when she'd been wide awake and speaking made the question of her . . . state of being,as it were, a bit unanswerable at the moment.

Hefting her up to get a better hold, he wore an expression that was somewhere between malice and exhaustion as he started up the long walk to his home. Wasn't Hermione Granger supposed to be made of tougher stuff than that? Tell her she doesn't have a pulse and the annoying little thing collapses in shock!

The nerve! Leaving him in a cemetery with a body that appeared dead— _and_ bloodied because simply no longer being alive wasn't enough. Knowing he couldn't very well stay there, and uncertain if she were dead or not, or if anyone had glimpsed them together, he'd done the only thing he could think of: scooped her up and Disapparated fast as magic permitted.

This, he thought with a murderous frown gracing his lips, was what he got for helping. Next time he heard someone pleading in a graveyard, he was going to mind his business!

He trudged up the steps feeling as though he'd aged a decade in the last ten minutes from the unexpected stress of this incredibly bizarre situation, alone. He'd felt fine earlier, but now here he was, storming into his own—he spared a moment to open the doors with a flick of his wand—storming into his own home carrying a possibly dead young woman. She was covered in blood, which was now likely on him, too. And the dirt, oh _God_ , the dirt. They were both a terrific mess.

The gesture angrier than he'd intended, he kicked the doors closed. The problem wasn't that Miss Granger might be dead. No—though things would prove a bit tricky if she were, since he'd have to explain being in possession of her body, or figure out a method of disposal, this was enough to drive one mad—it was that she hadn't been dead when she'd been without a pulse just minutes ago.

Dragging himself through the foyer, he made his way to a chaise in the main hall and after a moment of staring, turned and fell against the cushions in a sitting position. He was numb to the weight of her in his arms by now. His gaze fixed on a random floorboard, on how the light from the chandelier overhead glinted off the dark, polished wood.

Perhaps _he_ was in shock. That would certainly explain why he hadn't simply used magic to carry her—even noting that did not bring the realization that he could do so now.

But the impossible point remained. She'd not had a pulse as she'd stood there talking and sighing and _bleeding_. There had to be some rational explanation. Yes. Possibly something in the library might shed some light on this.

What might've been 2 minutes or 10 passed before Lucius realized he was _still_ staring at that same floorboard. "Right, yes," he said to no one at all as he stood, holding her still, and headed for the staircase.

While he climbed, he wondered . . . . was she a revenant? Oh, she might be a vampire, but they were such a rare species. So little was known about them beyond myth and legend, some of which were _bound_ to be wrong.

Sighing, he carried her into the library and settled her on the nearest of the many plush couches. Research required information. He checked her pulse again to be sure she continued not to have one. Still nothing.

Leaning close, he lifted one eyelid to check her pupil. Her iris was crimson.

He pulled away, swallowing hard. "All right, that . . . seems of note," he said haltingly. Nodding, he rose to his feet and turned toward the shelves, his wand at the ready just in case.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

All right, _now_ Hermione felt injured. Where, one might ask? All over. Her neck, where she'd known there was a distinct wound, didn't hurt any more or less than any other part of her body.

Her head swam and as she struggled to blink open her eyes, wincing at the burst of light. She squinted, waiting a few silent heartbeats for her vision to adjust. She knew something was very wrong as she at last was able to open them fully.

Everything was red.

Giving her head a minute shake—it was really all she could manage about now, anyway—she let her eyes drift closed. That glimpse had been enough to tell her where she was, well, where she _likely_ was. The library in Malfoy Manor.

This was all so, _so,_ very bad. She didn't have proof-positive of it, and she had a definite impression that her thoughts were fueled more by Muggle pop culture representations than fact, but . . . Hermione was rather certain she'd been bitten by a vampire.

Just. Blinking. Lovely.

Of course, there were other Dark creatures among the magical population of the world that she might be, but in the icy surge of panic pooling in her belly as she lay still trying to get a grip on herself, she could not think immediately what those might be.

Just then, as if reading her mind, she heard Lucius Malfoy's distracted murmur, accompanied by the rough whisper of pages turning, "Draugr? Doubtful . . . . Ghoul? Possibly. Do they have red eyes? Hmm, unclear."

Red eyes? That matched with her seeing in red just now. How could he have known? Had she half-awoken before now and mentioned it? All right. She had no pulse—that alone was threatening to terrify her into not making sense, which was why she had to force herself to keep thinking clear—her throat had been torn open and everything appeared coated in crimson.

Well, that certainly lined up with being a vampire, but she knew Lucius Malfoy was too smart to bother wasting time researching if the answer was that simple. Just as she'd surmised, there were too many undead creatures in the world to easily classify her based on these things, alone.

"Lich? Certainly not." He snickered and turned the page. "That actually sounds a bit more like the Dark Lord."

That was nearly enough to distract a laugh out of her— _nearly_. The witch remained silent, her form still as she listened to him thinking aloud. He wasn't wrong, the closest undead creature that would've fit Voldemort would be a lich. She'd never've thought of it if he hadn't said it just now.

Huh. He actually had a rather pleasant voice . . . when he wasn't being a generally awful person.

"Revenant, that would assume she was deliberately brought back to torment someone . . . ."

Brought back? There was that unpleasant reminder that she was _somehow_ dead.

"I suppose that's possible. Be easier to sort that one out if she can remember how this all happened. And finally vampire. I have to check for . . . ." He sighed, followed by the soft dull _thuck_ of a heavy-covered book closing. "Of course I do."

She was afraid to move as she heard his footfalls cross the floor toward her. Growing louder, mingling with his steps and then overpowering them, was the beat of his pulse.

Just like in the graveyard the sound made her skin tingle, this time, however, it also dulled her pain.

She could sense the warmth of his body as he knelt, leaning close. There was hesitation as he reached toward her face. The press of his fingertips around her mouth was delicate, uncertain. She had no idea what he saw as he gently pried her lips apart.

No idea, because even though he breathed the word, she couldn't hear his voice clearly over his pulse in her ears.

She shot forward on pure instinct—she wasn't even certain how it had happened, only aware of him suddenly on the floor beneath her, his wand knocked from his grip and her mouth at his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Clamping his hands around her arms, he pushed her back, but she was strong . . . . Terrifyingly so as she pressed forward in his hold, nearing his throat once more.

"Miss Granger _, stop_ ," he demanded even as the checklist he'd built in his mind added inhuman strength beneath fangs. Yes, she was definitely a vampire.

Hermione could hear his voice, but only very softly, the words muffled by the sound of his pulse beating beneath his skin. Disconnected from the moment, she turned her face toward his, catching his gaze.

God, her mouth really _was_ watering this close to his warmth, worse, there was a . . . a little fluttering sensation low in her body. The way he'd fallen beneath her when she'd launched at him found her straddling his waist and she thought—in a dulled, off-to-the-side sort of way—that they should both be grateful she'd not landed any lower along his, um, anatomy.

Her lips trembled. The scent of him was overwhelming. She could feel them, then, in the way her mouth shivered. Those long slender points of her canine teeth.

Everything in her was screaming to get closer. A lump formed in her throat as she tried to think around the temptation. Somehow she simply _knew_ the relief that would course through her when his blood touched her tongue . . . .

Something in her expression must've changed then, because his face fell and he shook his head. "Miss Granger, _no!_ "

"I'm sorry," was all she managed in a broken whisper.

Lucius cried out, his fingers gripping her arms hard enough to bruise when her teeth pierced his throat. The pain did not last long, however. He wasn't sure what was happening, but quickly—quicker than she'd actually withdrawn her fangs to begin nursing his blood from the punctures—the pain was replaced by something warm. Something light and ephemeral.

She was curled over him, suckling at the wound, a soft rumbling sound emitting from the back of her throat, almost a purr. Hermione Granger was not in control of herself, he could tell, having given over to this new need. Was it his imagination the way she began rocking in place as she drank from him?

He felt his breathing slow, but due to a calm stealing over him, not because she was draining his life away—on the contrary, her feeding was not frenzied or rushed, she was drinking slow, savoring the act. His grip on her arms loosened, his eyes drifting closed.

There was a strange peacefulness in this. A sense of soothing that was somehow . . . stirring. No. _Arousing._

He forced his eyes open at the acknowledgment. He'd blame that on having a young woman pressing herself against him like this, yes, certainly, _certainly,_ nothing to do with her feeding on him! That would be . . . sick, indeed!

Now that she must be somewhat sated, he tried again. "All right, Miss Granger, I believe that's enough." Renewing his grip—firm but gentle—he eased her back enough to sit up.

The crimson was clearing from her vision as she stared down at him. She lifted a wrist to her mouth, wiping some of the damp warmth she felt there. "I'm sorry," she said again, her voice still small.

He nodded, his hands slipping down her arms to loosely circle her elbows. "It's, um, it's all right. You only took as much as you _needed_ , yes?"

"I didn't want to take any!"

"Nevertheless, it's done." He jutted his chin to one side.

Following his hint, she slid off him to sit on the floor. "Do you think whoever bit me believed they'd killed me?"

Lucius sat up slow _, very_ aware of the state he was in. "Very likely. We'll figure out what happened. If you'll excuse me."

As he climbed to his feet, Hermione was positive she glimpsed something . . . awkward. Eyes wide, she couldn't stop the words from slipping out. "Mr. Malfoy? Are you—?"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Already at the door of the library, he stepped through and slammed it closed between them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Just as with the library door, Lucius slammed the door to the master bedroom's en-suite bathroom behind him. Bracing his palms on the sink, he focused on his breathing for several heartbeats.

That had been . . . absolutely deplorable, he decided with a firm nod.

Swallowing hard, he gave himself a shake as his internal admonishment continued. He had _not_ enjoyed any part of that just now. Turning from the sink—and dear Lord, a glimpse in the mirror showed what a mess he was from the night's events, far beyond the aid of any cleaning charm even had he the mind to employ one earlier—he reached into the bathtub and turned the faucet. His body's horrifically embarrassing response was only a natural reaction to the simple _physical_ aspects of her feeding. Yes, that he could accept, even if it _was_ Miss Granger.

He was, after all, only human.

Stripping out of his filthy robes, he looked down at himself and exhaled heavily. "Oh, shut up." He would ignore entirely the absurdity of being an otherwise perfectly rational man who was, in fact, speaking to his own cock. That somehow seemed no less ludicrous than anything else that had occurred tonight.

Testing the water, he found it pleasingly warm. Yet, as he had to further reprimanded himself—there had absolutely _not_ been anything strangely becoming about watching her above him as his blood glistened on her lips—he realized that would not do. Bracing for the discomfort, he switched the faucet to cold.

* * *

Hermione hadn't moved since he had stormed from the room. She honestly had no idea which event was more upsetting—that she'd been turned into a vampire, or that she'd made _Lucius Malfoy_ hard.

She tried again to remember what had happened before waking in that box. Still nothing. The witch held in a sound of anger at the continued emptiness of her own memories.

Climbing to her feet, she noted that the aches in her body had subsided, and she was no longer cold. Funny, she hadn't even realized she'd been cold before—not even when Mr. Malfoy had commented on it directly—until now, after some warmth had returned to her body.

All this from a few sips of blood? She stood a little straighter, her gaze darting about the floor. Wait, no. Not just any blood, but that of a pure-blood wizard. Perhaps there was some inherent potency because he was of an ancient magical line? Then again, information on vampires was so limited that maybe it was simply an unknown fact that they didn't need very much blood to survive.

She lifted her gaze, skimming the books lining the walls. Even in her current and wildly troubling situation, her heart leapt to be surrounded by so many mysterious texts. Hermione had meant to start cataloging all she'd noticed about her new existence, but she was far too distracted just now with her location.

Rather than finding a mirror to see whether or not she had a reflection, or, say, attempting to lift the sofa one-handed to gauge whether she was truly strong or if the burst of power she'd exhibited when Mr. Malfoy had been trying to hold her off had simply been due to his trying to prevent her from feeding.

 _Feeding . . . ._ She rethought the word, crinkling the bridge of her nose. Yes, very Muggle pop culture. What if they had some other way of referring to the act of taking sustenance?

She was thinking on this all very clinically, she realized, because to consider it any deeper would bring her to recalling the moment when she'd been curled over Lucius Malfoy like that, her lips against the warm, shockingly soft skin of his throat.

"No, no," she said to herself in a sharp whisper. "You're _not_ to think on that."

Returning her attention to the shelves, she lifted her hand to reach for the first interesting title.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Do _not_ touch the books!"

Vampire or not, she jumped at his voice behind her. Whirling on her heel, she glared at him. "You frightened me!"

Lucius scowled as he moved across the library floor. "Not nearly so much as it frightened me to see you about to lay filthy hands on pristine leather book jackets!"

Hermione ignored that he—pale hair darker for being wet and neatly combed back from his face, a dressing gown belted tightly—looked disturbingly appetizing. She avoided giving that notice any further thought by dropping her gaze to examine her own hands. They _were_ dirty and bloody. How could she forget?

"You didn't have a problem with the books being touched when it was _your_ hands that were filthy."

Lucius' brows shot up, his expression incredulous. "They are my books!"

"Fair point." She nodded. "Sorry."

He waved away her apology with one hand and held out a bundle with the other. "Here. There is a guest washroom straight down the corridor, third door to the right. Get yourself cleaned up."

"Oh." Again she nodded, stepping closer to accept what turned out to be a lady's dressing gown, a nightdress, and a soft, plush towel. Her brow furrowed as she picked carefully at the edge of the nightdress's sleeve with her _filthy_ fingertips. "Um, should I ask . . . ?"

His expression didn't falter. "Narcissa did not take all of her things when she left. I honestly forgot I even had any of it until I realized you might have need."

She cleared her throat. "Thank you." There he went again being gentlemanly in spite of himself.

Or so she thought. There was a distinct silence from him in the place where she—or any civilized person, for that matter—would've expected to hear the words _you're welcome_.

Then again, he'd brought her into his home despite her condition and had handled the incident of her taking his blood with a certain aplomb that she though should not be expected. When Hermione at last looked up at him, she realized he hadn't replied because he was focused on something else.

Seeming to not bother with whether she wanted him to or not, he pushed her hair back from her neck—the same spot he'd examined in the graveyard. He nodded, obviously holding back from prodding her skin with his fingers. He was freshly cleaned up, after all.

"As I suspected, your wound closed up."

"You mean because—"

Her words were cut off by his thumb and forefinger grasping her chin—okay, clearly there was a clean spot on her—and lifting her face. He moved her head side to side, his gaze fixed on hers.

After a moment, just long enough to set off a fluttering in her belly, he released her. "Eyes returned to normal."

She gave herself a shake, hating that he left her needing to collect her thoughts. "You're making a list?"

He'd turned on his heel to start toward the desk in the left-most corner of the library, stopping at her question. Looking back at her, he frowned. "Of course I am. Aren't you?"

Her brows drew together. "Oh." She had been about to make a list in her head. "Yes, I suppose I am."

She told herself it was her imagination that his gaze swept over her from head to toe—even if it had, it was likely only him fervently hoping she would not make a muddy, bloody mess of that guest washroom—before he turned away, again. He continued to the desk.

"As stated, we will figure out what happened to you, Miss Granger. The more we know about your new . . . situation, the better prepared we will be to recognize what information is useful and what is red herring."

"I agree," was all she could offer in response, grateful he was pretending there was no tension between them.

"Well?" he said, his tone rather forcefully disinterested as he pulled out the chair and seated himself. "Of you go."

"Yes, right." Hermione hurried from the room while trying not to make it obvious she was hurrying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

She was sure the water was hitting her skin, because dirt and blood were dripping away slow and steady, but she didn't feel the pressure of the shower's spray. Not because her senses were dulled, simply because she was so focused on ignoring any . . . deviant thoughts about the wizard who'd rescued her while still attempting to recall what sort of horror befell her.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. She'd been _trying_ to ignore and recall, but she'd gotten side-tracked watching the swirl of dark, dingy hues mix in the water pooling around her feet. There was simply something so fascinating in the combination of colors that she felt she'd never noticed before . . . .

But then, perhaps it was because she was witnessing the spectacle with new eyes.

When previously the water would've simply been a dull, muddy brown washing away to clear, now she could see a hundred different subtle shades that resulted from the separate colors joining together. Variations based on how much of each had met the other.

Turning beneath the spray, she watched as the last of that strange, dark rainbow unwound through the water to vanish down the drain. The crisp transparency of the swaying liquid left behind was crystalline, as if made of moving, shifting quartz. Unable to help herself, she leaned down and dipped in her fingers. They struck the bottom of the basin, the lapping water barely deep enough to cover the tips.

The contact drew her from her reverie and she gave herself a shake. She determinedly returned to washing herself— rinsing her hair, scrubbing beneath her nails, soaping her neck for the sixteenth time—and tried not to pay much mind to the sudden burst of detail she was able to discern with a single, quick glance in any direction. She thought it likely that if she focused on any singular sound long enough, she'd experience the noise in similar, multi-layered hyper detail. That observation made, she deliberately avoided doing so.

This was simply another thing she should report to Mr. Malfoy to toss onto the list. She couldn't be certain if it was natural vampire senses kicking in, or if they were sharpened due to her blood source.

A sweet little thrill pulsed through her as she considered that. Bracing a palm against the wall of the tub, she focused on her breathing—while dutifully ignoring that she most likely did not need to breathe at all. She needed to somehow separate her reaction from the act, itself.

She had been hungry and needed sustenance to heal, and he'd been a ready source, nothing more. Maybe vampires simply always found feeding a little . . . well, she wasn't going to think on it any further, so it didn't matter. From now on she'd . . . she didn't know, actually, but there had to be a way to do proceed without hating herself afterward.

After a time, it became apparent that she was not simply cleaning up, she was trying to avoid being alone in the same room as Lucius Malfoy. He had, however, agreed to help her get to the bottom of things, and she didn't really know what else to do just now.

Drawing in a deep breath, her shoulders drooped as she turned off the faucet. "Can't put it off any longer, Hermione," she said to herself in a whisper. If she were lucky, maybe feeding from a wizard was potent enough that she would never need to do it again.

* * *

Lucius' mouth tugged to one side in thought while he read over all he'd written thus far—not only Miss Granger's apparent 'symptoms', but his own observations of her circumstances. He hadn't meant to begin some Jonathon Harker-esque memoir, but strange times . . . .

As he was muttering the words before him under his breath, he became aware of an icy curling sensation tickling along his spine. The air in his lungs suddenly had weight to it as he inhaled and exhaled slow, quiet in the even quieter library.

He was not alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

His body freezing near entirely—he had a very distinct impression that this must be what a trapped herbivore felt like, afraid that if he moved too fast, that would be his end—he inched a hand toward the pocket of his dressing gown to draw his wand. He turned his head during that slow, excruciating reach for his weapon, to cast a cursory glance over his shoulder.

There Miss Granger stood, having not made a sound as she'd entered the library and drawn close enough to stand at his elbow.

A split second of his heart slamming against his ribcage passed before the surge of nervous energy left him in a rush. His shoulders slumped and he let out a breath, quick and heavy. "Good Lord, Miss Granger! You scared me witless!"

She wasn't looking at him. Her movement strangely bird-like, she was angling her head, her gaze on the papers laid upon the desk. "Somehow, I doubt that."

He didn't bother with responding—was she complimenting him, saying it would take more than being scared to render him 'witless', or insulting him by suggesting a Malfoy could not experience a 'real' emotion like fear? The second was hardly a leap, most of Wizarding Britain held that notion and he well knew it.

Instead, he watched her as she looked over his writing. She appeared . . . different, somehow. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, so he could not be certain it wasn't merely an effect of his knowing she was something _else_ , now. Her dampness-darkened hair, unusually controlled for the water weighing it down, framed her features in sleek, wavy tendrils. Narcissa's garments on her, all fine black silks and velvets, were a bit long, dipping and dragging on her petite form. Surprising how an article of clothing could at once be billowing and clingy so that it stood just to the side of being considered 'revealing.' The darkness of the fabrics highlighted the fairness of her skin and he wondered if she was always so pale—was that also his imagination or an actual change brought on by what she had become?

The entire image made her eyes, the typical chest-nut brown tinted now with the very faintest sheen of crimson, seem wider . . . . A strangely and disturbingly more innocent look. Huh. Could that be an effect meant to lure prey, or was he imagining changes to her appearance that weren't actually there because of that _dreadful_ incident earlier? Though he was quite certain her lips hadn't been so full nor so deeply pink before.

Ripping himself back into the moment, he shook his head. "Whatever are you staring at so intently?"

"Your penmanship." She leaned over him to pick up the parchment bearing the list—clearly this change had lost her the ability to respect personal space. She held the piece pinched between thumb and forefinger, as though it were delicate. "It's remarkable!"

Lucius only arched a brow, uncertain he'd ever had anyone fawn over his handwriting before. "Thank you, I suppose. Now," he said, smiling mirthlessly as he extracted the list from her hand. "If we could get to this?"

"Hmm?" Hermione wanted to slap herself as she noticed how close they were. Not wanting to draw more attention to her nearness by jumping away or anything so obvious, she simply nodded and casually backed away to sit on the nearby sofa. "Yes, of course."

"Firstly," he started, turning away and retrieving his quill, "have you noticed anything . . . new?"

With a deep, bracing breath, she related to him what she'd observed in the shower. He nodded, jotting down words as she spoke.

"Any memory of what happened or your attacker?"

Her entire frame slumped, sagging into the cushions. "None."

He uttered an unhappy sound. "Bloody hell. There's no helping it, then."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "No helping what?"

Turning in his seat to face her, his expression spoke volumes on how unhappy he was with the decision he'd come to. "Until you can recall something of their identity, you'll simply have to stay hidden. _Here_."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Hermione held her breath—her completely non-essential to her new existence breath—as she stared at him. She could feel her brows climb. There was no masking her reaction to this decision he'd made on her behalf.

"Here?" she echoed, her voice pitched a bit high in disbelief. "With . . . you?"

Lucius Malfoy . . . well, it seemed odd that were anyone else to suck their teeth in a gesture of irritation, it would be simply rude, but from him it was a distinctly more potent form of insult, possibly because he was able to make the sound somehow dignified, which always made a deliberately unbecoming gesture all the more cutting. She also had the impression he was barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

" _Here_ means within the manor, not within my shadow, Miss Granger." He shook his head, expression sour. "The property is quite large enough there could be entire days our paths don't cross."

She lowered her head, frowning in thought. Or perhaps she was fretting, he couldn't be sure which, he was only striving to ignore her very real presence whilst maintaining a coherent discussion _with_ her. Not. Easy.

"Problem?"

Her teeth worried at her lower lip for a few seconds before she shrugged. "I simply realized I severely underestimated the manor's size."

Lucius arched a brow. "Many times over the years we panicked thinking Draco had gone missing only to find him playing in a random wing."

This mention snagged her curiosity. "Oh? Was he likely to 'go missing?'"

Squaring his jaw, he gazed at the far shelves. "I was a known follower of the Dark Lord, only let to maintain my privileges existence because I claimed I was Imperiused." Oh, everyone knew by now that he'd not exactly been telling the truth there, no point in pretending. "Following the First War, not everyone believed me, of course. It was never far from my mind that my own brethren—angered I'd escaped punishment and kept my life intact—might seek retribution."

"You believed retribution could mean harming Draco." It wasn't a question.

_Despite_ that it wasn't, that she'd even spoken the words garnered her a quelling look from him. "Miss Granger, don't be daft. The Dark Lord made clear his own cruelty during that deranged declaration of his at the Battle of Hogwarts—how he would slaughter any man, woman, or _child_ —along their families—who did not bend knee to him. Many of his followers were as bad, if not worse."

She held his gaze in silence for a few heartbeats. Even now remembering those words across the war-torn landscape of the Hogwarts grounds set off a chill in the pit of her stomach. "I often suspected that was why some of them followed him—not because they cared about his cause, but because his viciousness allowed them to feed their own."

He turned away, nodding. "Now you understand why I most assuredly would believe as I had. And why I should understand how we are to proceed whilst their might be someone who already tried to murder you once still lurking about."

She folded in on herself a little. "I still wonder," she said absently, "if they meant to kill me or turn me."

"Their intent doesn't matter." When she didn't vocalize any further questions or input, he went on. "If they only meant to feed on you and you died as a result, they thought to hide your body. If they meant to turn you and believed they'd accidentally killed you, they thought to hide your body. So, regardless of why, there is someone out there who believes they murdered Hermione Granger. Someone who does not know you can't remember who they are."

Hermione nodded, repressing an urge to sniffle as the tip of her nose stung. "Someone who thought the graveyard was empty when they buried me." Someone who thought she'd never be found.

"Precisely. Now, I suppose I should show you to one of the guest suites." He stood and started toward the doors, very obviously not waiting for her to follow. "Come along."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

As Hermione trailed him through the corridors of Malfoy Manor she thought . . . _yes, this certainly_ does _match with the decor of the room where I was tortured_. Waking in the library had been one thing—it was a _library_ —even seeing herself to the guest washroom had been fine, but now the darkness of her surroundings had become stark and evident.

Shadows within shadows stretched along the floor beside their footfalls. Silhouettes of black against somehow deeper black. But then, this trek across the too-large estate house—honestly? Who needed a space this expansive to live in?—was taking place after her shift in perceptions, she realized.

She was noticing these things quite simply because she was _able_ to notice them.

That Lucius Malfoy was able to traverse the corridor with only the aid of the most minimally-powered Lumos charm was due to his familiarity with the property. Were it anyone else leading her by such paltry illumination, they'd have stumbled at least twice by now.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Hmm?"

She frowned. "Are you so careless a host because you haven't been one in so long, or because you trust my eyes are now better than a human's?"

The wizard stopped short, and she immediately froze, not wishing to stumble into him. He pivoted to face her, his confused scowl strangely highlighted by his wand. "Whatever are you on about?"

Her brows drew upward as she gestured toward that meager brightness. "That. It's barely enough for you to see by, yet you're fully aware you're in another person's company. So I ask, is the reason you aren't using a full light charm because you're unaccustomed to escorting a guest through your house, or because you believe I don't need the light?"

" _Do_ you need the light?"

Hermione's face fell and her shoulders slumped a little. "Well, no."

He nodded and turned away, again. "You've your answer."

She narrowed her eyes at the back of his head as they continued along. What a nuisance he was. If not for the fact that he'd made perfect sense with his reasons for her remaining here, she'd have already stormed out the door.

"Besides, there's yet one more thing we should observe before retiring for the night . . . or, rather, day."

Collecting herself, she did her best not to mind her surroundings. There were ancient Malfoys snoozing in their portraits and if they woke while she was looking at them, it would be unpleasant. She'd scream, and then they'd scream, and then Lucius would roll his eyes and scowl. It would be a whole thing, and who had time for that?

"What is it?" she asked, determined to focus on the conversation instead of looming, long-dead Malfoys.

"Your reaction to sunlight. It's quite dark in here, but it is summer. Sunrise is in a few moments."

"I do hope you're not planning to let me roast alive." She said it facetiously, but it was suddenly a _very_ real concern.

"No." He at last opened a door, gesturing for her to go ahead of him. "Only a moment's exposure to see how you fare."

She didn't like the sound of that, but they did need to know. "All right," she said, entering.

The room was quiet as they waited. She stood before the part in the drapes, braced for what she imagined was about to be a horribly uncomfortable few seconds.

Lucius pulled aside one corner of the heavy fabric and peeked out. After a few tense minutes, he at last said, "Ready?"

"Yes," she answered, not quite bravely.

He moved the drape aside, only enough to let in a single line of soft, early morning light.

She winced, but immediately realized she was fine. Actually . . . . "It's warm." She smiled, stepping more fully into the light.

He exhaled, relaxing a little. Until the sound of her body hitting the floor made him jump.

Dropping the drape back into place, he sighed, his gaze on her apparently lifeless form, which he suspected was far from dead. "And here we go again."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_This_ time, Lucius had the presence of mind to use magic to get the young woman off the floor. Carefully settling her on the bed, he made certain the drapes were securely in place, not permitting the faintest hint of morning light, and left the room. He was assuming her new state meant she was perfectly fine above the covers—after all, if one had no pulse, then one was not likely to catch cold, were they?

That mattered little, he simply did not want to be anywhere near her when she awoke. A faint tremor wracked him as he recalled how that had played out the first time around. Clearing his throat, he gave himself a sobering shake. Revulsion, yes, that's what that feeling was, because it could be absolutely _nothing_ else.

And he would not be treated like a . . . a midday snack in his own home, he declared inwardly, wagging his finger at no one.

Well, that foolish bit of mental rambling had seen him through about half his journey across the house.

Never before had the corridors of his home seemed quite so long, he realized as he walked. Also, he had never before realized they were so very, very dark. He halted, his spine pin-straight as he cast a cursory glance about. If he didn't know any better, he'd have to wonder if his ancestors might not have had . . . friends who shared Miss Granger's condition. That would certainly explain his very sudden cognizance that the manor's layout and indeed very construction would mean she could stalk about the house whilst the sun was out.

Hmm.

He resisted the urge to stomp over to his great-great grandfather's portrait and demand answers for this deliberately night-shaded environment. Squaring his shoulders, he continued to his room.

Climbing into bed seemed like heaven just now. He hadn't even bothered removing his dressing gown. Rather, he toed off his slippers, and near-literally crawled beneath the covers, just as the expression suggested.

Lucius didn't recall feeling this exhausted moments ago, but then he remembered again . . . . The little wretch had taken some of his blood! Coupled with the sleepless night and the random bursts of shock and adrenaline—

The wizard was snoring softly before he even finished the observation.

* * *

Muffled sounds, light beating against the backs of her closed eyelids. She tossed her head, trying to get away from the sensation of hands pulling at her.

No, no. Hoisting her up? Yes. If her heart still beat, it would be hammering against her ribcage just now. This wasn't her imagination.

These were her memories. Faded, glossy, dreamlike for certain, but there was a cold familiarity accompanying the sensations playing fleetingly across her skin, to the glimpses past her eyes and sounds drifting by her ears.

And then she was floating, weightless, still. Blackness surrounded her, soft and rolling. The feeling was gentle. Welcoming. Yet somehow that scared her even more.

Hermione felt like she was clawing. Scraping and pulling and tugging herself through the black. Layers upon layers of velvety darkness slid through her fingers and tore beneath the press of her nails.

With a sharp exhalation, she bolted upright in bed.

Turning her head slow, she looked about the room. Once more, everything was sharp and starkly detailed to her eyes despite that the suite was deliberately shadowed.

Okay, yes, she remembered this room. Mr. Malfoy had ushered her in here and then . . . .

The sunlight. She hung her head feeling like an idiot, but how could she have known? Her body must've shut down as a defense mechanism against the sun's rays. She would assume Lucius had used another Levicorpus to get her onto the bed.

Nodding, she let her startled breathing slow and then laid back down, willing sleep to overtake her.

* * *

Lucius frowned, shifting beneath the weight of his covers. The feel of something cool pressing against him lured him awake against his will.

Opening his eyes slow, he found the sleeping face of Hermione Granger pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder.

His jaw set, grey eyes narrowing lethally.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_"How the_ bloody hell _did this happen?!"_

He was quite literally roaring the question in her ear. Yet this . . . infuriating little creature had the audacity not to jump. Not to give a start, not to so much as twitch one of her eyelids.

The utter _nerve_!

A rather severe frown marred his features as he stared into her slumbering—though, given what the night's events had already taught him, more likely temporarily _dead—_ face. Lucius realized he was wildly uncomfortable with the notion of her waking in this very . . . unfortunate position they were in.

Rolling his eyes, he tugged his shoulder out from beneath her . . . . Or rather, tried to. The vampire-witch would not be so easily budged, and there was a reason they referred to it as 'dead weight;' slight as she was, she felt like a rock resting atop him.

"Oh, for pity's sake," he muttered, the words tumbling from between his lips in an aggravated breath.

Deciding to try again, he shouted her name—which felt markedly louder than he knew it truly was, given the silence of the manor. Still, she did not stir.

His entire frame slumping against the mattress beneath him, he let himself count to ten. Sufficiently calmed so that he would not throw her with any more force than what was strictly necessary, he pulled his shoulder from beneath her once more, this time while shoving against her side with the open palm of his free hand.

Lucius' eyebrows pinched upward as he watched her roll across the bed and disappear over the other side. He showed the good grace to wince at the thud that followed.

Inching his way cautiously across the mattress to peer over the edge, he saw her just as she finally uttered a sleepy sound of confusion. Remembering what had happened the last time he'd woken her, he made the quick decision to reach for his wand as she roused herself.

When he returned to the edge of the mattress, she was sitting up on the floor. Her reddish-brown eyes were enormous as she pressed the heel of her palm against her temple.

She wasn't looking at him, but instead sweeping her attention about the room. "Where am I?"

"Are you _quite_ serious?"

Somehow her eyes managed to widen further still as she turned her gaze on him. "Mr. Malfoy? What's going on? Why are you there?" She didn't exactly mean 'here' as in the same room as her, she meant it more as in . . . laying in a bed in a room where she was.

But she thought it best for both their sakes if she didn't clarify quite so clearly.

He arched a brow—incredibly high, as though she'd just levied an insult. "It is _my_ room!"

"That doesn't count for much, now does it?" she demanded, her tone grousing. "I suspect everything in this corner of Wiltshire is yours!"

His other eyebrow climbed to join the first, turning his incredulous, offended look into a rather eloquent expression.

"Oh, as in your . . . ." She swallowed hard, nodding as understanding dawned. "Your _personal_ room. Of course it is."

"How on earth did you get here?"

Hermione's teeth worried at her bottom lip before she managed with a shrug, "I'm assuming I walked?"

Grey eyes rolled so hard his lids fluttered with the force of it. "Need I really explain the intent of my question?"

"Oh, right, how did I . . . how did I find you, you mean?"

He didn't nod. Didn't blink. He merely glared at her in silence as he waited.

"Um . . . ." She looked toward the door, which stood open, and then back at the severely disgruntled wizard. "I—I've no idea!"

Lucius was completely aghast and equally unsure what to do as the vampire-witch sitting on his bedroom floor burst into sobs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another late post. Long story short, had to brave the outside world today for a trip to the hospital dental clinic to have an abscessed tooth extracted. DX After getting back I spent most of today sleeping, but I did say 'daily' and I meant it, so here we are! 😊

**Chapter Fourteen**

Hermione felt she had lost the ability to understand a great many things in that moment. As she sat on the floor of Lucius Malfoy's bedroom—because where the bloody hell else would a woman in her predicament manage to have an utter meltdown?—struggling over the question of how she'd found her way to him, she simply could not seem to grasp a single ruddy thing.

How had she crossed the entire house and not even know it? How had she known which room was his? How had she ended up on the floor? That all tumbled into questions already swirling about in her head—who had done this to her? Why? Was it someone she knew? Had she seen or heard something that had brought about her early demise, or was she an attack of opportunity? Where had it even happened? How long would it be before someone noticed she was 'missing'?

And why the hell did she have to become one of the Un-fucking-dead? Why couldn't she have just died, instead? She had no idea how to _be_ a vampire! Clearly, she'd been turned by an idiot!

This was awful, every last moment of it!

And that was when it happened. As she scrambled to answer Mr. Malfoy's question, she could not seem to stop herself from breaking down into huge, gross, weepy sobs.

She wasn't sure how long passed before she lifted her hands weakly to wipe the backs of her overly-long dressing gown sleeves over her cheeks. A hand caught her wrist and she nearly jumped out of her own skin.

Blinking her eyes clear—there was a hazy red mist clouding her vision, only not like earlier when it seemed the whole world had been washed crimson—she saw Lucius Malfoy. She had no recollection of when he'd moved from the bed, or if he might've said or done anything before settling on the floor before her. He held her wrist in a firm but gentle grasp. His gaze wasn't on hers.

It was on her cheeks.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she started, her words a thin whisper against the silence of the room. "What is it?"

He chewed at his lower lip in a somewhat angry gesture—it would be a miracle if he didn't bruise the delicate skin—and reached out. Brushing a fingertip across her cheek, he held it up for her to see.

"Oh." She forced a gulp down her throat. No wonder her vision had been a hazy red shade.

Lucius nodded, frowning. "We've no way of knowing if crying will deplete the blood you require to function. And we recall what happened the last time you got . . . hungry."

Snatching her arm from his grip, she propped her fists on her hips. "I already said I was sorry about that!" Despite her bravado, she couldn't help but wonder, rather suddenly, if he was right, because she was starting to feel a little . . . droopy.

She wanted to ask how they were supposed to see to her . . . unique dietary needs if she were to be shut up in here and he was _clearly_ reluctant to be considered food. Instead, she struggled to her feet. "I believe you've a point. I'll see myself back to my . . . ."

The vampire-witch seemed to lose her footing, despite not having taken a step, and fell right back down, landing hard on her bum. Blinking about in a daze, she shook her head. "Or perhaps you should go and I'll . . . I'll stay here."

Lucius groaned—a truly unhappy sound in the back of his throat—and hung his head. "All right, _all right_!"

Shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor, he scooped her up and deposited her across his lap. He turned his head away so that she found herself looking at the punctures she'd created in his throat just a handful of hours earlier. "I don't fancy the thought of being all marked up, so just use the same wound."

God help her, Hermione felt her mouth watering as her gaze once more flooded red.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

He hated the fine, tingly tremor that ran through his entire body—yes, his _entire_ body—as she leaned close. Yet, the first thing she did was not reopen the wounds, no.

Lucius angled his gaze, trying to get a look at her expression. And immediately regretted that decision. He suspected it would not be the last decision he'd come to regret whilst Miss Granger was in residence at the manor.

Her teeth had sunken into her lower lip, the points of her fangs making deep impressions in the soft, plump flesh. Those wide eyes, irises flooded crimson, were strangely dreamy as she lifted a hand.

He _despised_ that the brush of her fingertips over the broken skin—tender as it was—set off a clenching just below his gut. Just as he opened his mouth to snap at her to get on with it, her voice broke the tense silence of the room.

"Did this hurt terribly?"

God, he hated that she sounded genuinely concerned. Little wretch. How . . . how _dare_ she wound him and then care whether or not he'd suffered during the act? They were enemies once, might be still if not for this bizarre situation! Well, and that whole messy turncoat business he'd pulled.

"I would rather not discuss it, Miss Granger," he said, a little prideful that his voice came out so controlled and level. "If you don't mind, I would like to get _some_ sleep today?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "Right, of course. Sorry."

Now that Hermione was of her own mind, about to knowingly, willingly sink her teeth into Lucius Malfoy's throat, she had . . . misgivings. Earlier, she'd been out of her head, running entirely on her new instincts, not in control of her actions.

But he was right, _she_ needed to—for lack of a better term—eat. And, for one such as she, _he_ was—as she'd considered earlier—food.

Nodding again, she shut her eyes and closed the distance. Her hand sliding around the other side of his neck to hold him steady, to keep him close—though she wasn't certain how much closer they could get with her already in the man's lap—was purely reactionary. Parting her lips, she blindly measured the placement of the punctures with the tip of her tongue.

He very much disliked the feel of her tongue sweeping over the wounds. He jumped a little, his arms reluctantly tightening around her as she bit down, rupturing those very first, sensitive stages of early healing.

Lucius Malfoy could not think of anything worse than this. Nothing was worse, nothing was lower than the way his breathing hitched as she extracted her fangs. Nothing was more terrible than how his eyes drifted closed and tense set of his shoulders eased at the sensation of her drawing from the wounds.

Nothing was more horrid than the sweet rippling low in his body at the strange sound she was making as she fed. Just like earlier, a quiet noise, nearly like the purr of a contented kitten.

He hated the way his skin felt warmer against hers, because there was something somehow stirring in it. Yes, stirring, because he refused to think the word he had back in the library. She was a predator, and he was her unfortunately willing prey, and there was nothing more to this.

When the hand holding the side of his neck slid upward, her fingers curling into the ends of his hair, he forced himself to speak, the hushed question slipping out from between clenched teeth. "Are you quite satisfied now?"

His choice of wording more than anything else—how comfortable she was in his lap, the feel of his breath against her skin as she drank from him, the soft warmth of his skin beneath her lips, the way she was forced to wonder if maybe her knickers were a _little_ damp from all this—drew her back to reality.

Straightening up, she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. Meeting his gaze, she nodded in silence.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Her eyes were clear again, and he returned her nod. Relinquishing his hold on her, he jutted his chin toward the bed. "Well, then, get some sleep."

She glanced back, following his indication, and then looked at him wide-eyed. "What? Here?"

Setting her on the floor, he climbed to his feet and straightened his dressing gown in sharp, angry snapping motions. "Miss Granger, I need rest, as do you, and as I _hardly_ find the prospect of again waking to discover a wayward vampire in the room without any sort of warning, it's perhaps simply easier on both of us if you stay here."

"Then does . . . ." She scrambled to collect herself while clambered up to stand, as well, and slipped her hands into her sleeves, fingers clasping her own wrists to keep herself from fidgeting. "Then does that mean you're going to be here, too?"

His brows jumped upward as though she had just spoken in a foreign tongue. Had his statement not made that perfectly obvious or was she being deliberately obtuse? "It's _my_ room, of course I am."

"But I mean . . . ." Hermione waved an elbow vaguely in the direction of the proffered bed. "There? Both of us _there_?"

Another thought occurred to him. "Am I, perhaps, not speaking English?" As he asked the question, he pressed his fingertips to his chest, darting his gaze about the room with a mildly confused expression on his face. It had been a very long night—morning—day, it was entirely possible utter gibberish had just fallen from his lips.

"No, no, you are. But just . . . ." She sighed, her shoulders sloping down. "Seems like it might be awkward."

He declined to give the possibly expected 'we are both perfectly rational adults' speech, because he suspected that if nothing else, neither of them had made terribly rationally decisions over the last several hours of their lives.

Instead, he offered a tightlipped, mirthless grin and swept his hand toward a piece of furniture against the far wall. "You are, of course, welcome to sleep on the chaise. I, however, am going back to sleep in _my_ bed."

With that said, he pivoted on his heel and stomped—in a somehow dignified and aristocratic manner—to the bed. He did not look back, did not say another word as he reached to sort the rumpled covers.

While he moved to slip beneath them, Hermione found her gaze drawn back to the floor. To the spot where she'd awoken. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Hmm?" he breathed out the sound in an irritated huff of air.

"How, exactly, did I end up on the floor?"

Lucius turned his back to her, determined stuffing his hands beneath his pillow and squeezing shut his eyes. "What do you mean 'exactly'?"

She looked up at him and then back at the floor. "I . . . I mean . . . ." Didn't she recall an odd thumping sensation that had awoken her? "I mean, what? Did I stumble in here dead-asleep and just crumble onto the floor? Or did I simply curl up in that spot like a pet cat and bump my head on the leg of the bedpost?"

"You came in asleep, and woke up on the floor. Nothing more to it."

The vampire-witch was struck with a very sudden, very certain, sense that he was not being at all truthful—that he was fully aware of what had led to a knock against the floor waking her. Narrowing her eyes, she merely watched him for a moment.

He was on the very edge along the opposite side of the mattress. It was a large bed. And she refused to sleep on a chaise—the thing appeared so _stylishly_ slender, she imagined a mere leg twitch would send her sprawling off it.

"Huh," was all she finally uttered in response as she moved to the other side of the bed and copied him, veritably clinging to the edge after climbing under the covers.

Unable to help his curiosity at her thoughtful sound, Lucius echoed it in question.

She shrugged and closed her eyes. "I suppose I just never expected a Malfoy to be such a lousy liar."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Hermione awoke with a bit of a start. She wasn't sure exactly how, or what the sensation had been, not precisely, but as she opened her eyes, she understood the source.

The sun had set. Somehow, deep in her bones, she'd simply _felt_ it.

Yet, she didn't consider herself to have the time, nor the presence of mind, to be troubled by that. Not when the circumstance she awoke _to_ was . . . so very much more troubling.

She was rather irritatingly across the bed, pressed into the side of one quite deeply-asleep Lucius Malfoy. Worse, while she'd clearly been the one to cross the expanse of the very large mattresses—because vampires obviously turned into needy lunatics with no sense of boundaries nor personal space when they slept—there was the distinct feel of his arm around her waist.

For a few strained . . . well, no, not heartbeats, she didn't have those anymore. For a few strained seconds, she watched his face. She didn't move, only stared at him, waiting for a seemingly inevitable moment of him waking to find them in this rather unfortunate—clearly accidental—embrace, so that he could start his dignified form of bellyaching and be done with it.

Yet, he did not stir. Not even an eyelid flutter.

Swallowing hard, she crept backward, gently nudging his arm from her with her elbow as she moved. The entire time she continued keeping a close eye on his currently peaceful expression, her not-beating heart in her throat as she waited for him to burst awake and find some way to blame her for this . . . unseemly predicament. Of course, it was _her_ on _his_ side of the bed, but she wasn't willing to entertain the logic behind any arguments he might levy just now.

Her? Hermione Granger not willing to entertain logic? Well, this entire vampire-mess was simply awful!

Managing to finally extract herself from him, she bolted back to her own side of the bed so fast she wasn't even conscious of her swift movement, only that in the space of a blink she was back at the far edge of the mattress. She hadn't made a sound, nor jostled the bed at all.

Letting her eyelids drift shut a moment, she forced her lungs to draw in a breath, to collect herself. This was all new and she only had vague ideas of what to expect, it was natural that some things of her new existence were going to come as a shock.

Nodding to her sleeping host, she climbed out of bed and inched toward the window. Wincing, she peeled back the very edge of the drape, prepared to collapse were she wrong. Yes, the sun had set; her new instincts weren't somehow faulty.

Hermione dropped the heavy fabric back into place and turned on her heel to face the room when a scent tickled her nose. Ever so faint, like . . . she shook her head. The only thing she could really compare it to was the way the wafting of fresh bread from a bakeshop might fill the air first thing in the morning, initially just the lightest hint of sweetness tinging the air as the process began and then growing stronger as it went on, or as you got closer.

Only this smell was getting no stronger. It remained light, unplaceable.

Her brow furrowing, she made a mental note to tell Mr. Malfoy about her speedy movement—but certainly not what she'd been trying to get away from at the time—when he woke up, she padded barefoot to the door. Easing it open, she ducked her head into the corridor.

Out here, too. No heavier, still, but she could get a sense of direction.

Her nostrils flared, and she deliberately ignored the mental picture of an animal tracking prey. Slipping through the doorway, she followed the scent.

Down the corridor and then another, through a door that blended into the wall—likely to conceal the servants' quarters from the prying eyes of wandering guests—and down a winding staircase.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long-about where I remind everyone that 'ridiculous' doesn't necessarily mean hilarity ensues from start to finish, it more means that because it's a completely unplanned story, some turns it will take as we go on might feel completely out of left field. That being said, there might be some dark moments/themes that come into play as we progress.

**Chapter Eighteen**

The room the staircase let out into was a simple bedchamber with another door that probably led into the kitchen. Four beds were pressed into the corners, leaving the center of the floor bare. They were small—definitely house elf-sized. Her first thought—a terrible one, to be sure—was that given what she was now, perhaps the 'sweet' scent was blood. And that would have to mean something tragic had befallen these creatures, far beyond the sadly expected, mundane horrors of an elf's life in servitude to cruel masters.

But the scent did not end here. She wasn't even certain it led here, at all, but merely . . . passed through here, somehow?

Indeed, the room was covered in a layer of dust—there was likely a different, more accessible area of the manor the elves lived in by the time Dobby had come into the Malfoy's service, because this room's undisturbed state appeared ancient.

Yes, Hermione nodded to musty air. Passed through, traveled this way, yes, that seemed more fitting. Ignoring the wild curiosity that prodded her to investigate the dusty old quarters, she continued trailing the strange smell.

Giving herself a shake, she moved through the room toward the door. Yet then she felt something, like the whisper of a breeze against her skin.

But from where?

Turning her head, she gazed about the room once more. Realizing it was very dark in here despite that she could see perfectly was startling, but she ignored that, as well.

Holding out her hand, she tested the air. The sensation led her to a panel that seemed to take up half of one wall. Away from the beds, she noticed. Much like the door that led here, it was blended into the surface surrounding it—one would not spot it unless deliberately searching for something out of place.

"Time to test that strength, Hermione," she said in a whisper, the thought of speaking at normal volume somehow unnerving.

Finding the seam, she jammed her fingertips beneath it and wrenched. The panel tore free of the wall, hitting the floor with a strangely soft and hollow _thuck_.

A narrow window with a crack in the lower left pane was the source of that soft wind. Hermione neared it, raising her fingers against the breeze.

One mystery solved. But she could guess that panel hadn't been in place to block a broken window. More likely the door beside it. The door with its knob conspicuously missing.

Reason was screaming at her to proceed no further alone—to run up and get Mr. Malfoy. Not for any sort of aid or protection, she was a bloody vampire after all, but simply because she could not know what awaited down there. A faulty floor? Some enchantment triggered by a wrong step?

Yet her body would not listen as she tried to will herself back across the room. Instead, she was gravitating toward that door.

Pressing her palms against it, the old wood creaked before opening outward. She crossed the threshold, finding herself at the upper landing of another staircase.

And the smell was finally stronger, now.

She knew if her heart still beat, it would be rattling her ribcage this very second as she started down the steps. Trailing her fingers against the narrow stone walls to guide her way despite that the pitch-blackness was not compromising her vision, she kept her pace steady, calm. Vampire or not, she imagined taking a spill down a stone staircase would still hurt.

At last reaching the bottom, she forced herself to stop breathing. The odor was no longer sweet. Down here, it was terrible and cloying.

Turning her head to look around, she froze. A chill itched along her shoulders and her stomach twisted into a knot.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Marshaling her courage, she approached one of the walls. Lowering herself to kneel before one of the chained skeletons, she merely looked it over in examination for a moment. This. The smell was coming from this—from _them_. They were too large to be the house elves; average size for a fully-grown human, though.

But what was . . . ? Unable to help herself, she reached up tracing her fingers across the poor soul's cheekbone.

The skull lulled to one side at the pressure, granting Hermione a different view of its features. A gasp tore out of her and she fell backward at the sight of elongated canines.

"Vampire blood," she wagered in a breathless murmur as she stared into the empty eye-sockets. "I'm smelling vampire blood." In a strange, disconnected way, she considered that it made sense that vampires would smell sweet to one another, alluring, even. It was distinctive yet hard to describe. It would be perfect for finding one of your own when no one else knew your kind even existed.

She only guessed that she hadn't detected it until now because she was still so 'new.' Or perhaps because she'd been underfed and tired? Maybe it was even that she wasn't in a close enough part of the house combined with those other factors.

Hermione collected herself—her attempt at sorting things logically a coping mechanism, really—and climbed to her feet.

A trail of light against the wall startled her and she spun on her heel, teeth bared on instinct.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the foot of the steps, his illuminated wand held out before him. His grey eyes were enormous as he gaped about the uncovered chamber.

Hermione actually thought he was turning a bit green. He wasn't looking at her. He didn't even seem to notice any other living—well, any other _functioning_ —person was in the room with him. It was so dark, though, that even with his light charm, she wondered how much of this horror he could actually see.

"What the devil is this place?" His question was barely audible even against the hollow silence of the chamber.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "Maxima," she whispered.

That non-sequitur response finally jarred him from his shock. Snapping his gaze to lock on hers, he asked, "What?"

"Lumos Maxima," the young woman clarified, gesturing about her. "You'll need stronger light to see this as I do."

Lucius stepped into the room more completely, a frown gracing his lips. He could recall her flinching and shielding her face the last times he'd done so. That made him wonder, however, if the source of her discomfort had been a burst of light when it was supposed to be dark out, or if the spark of the lumos charm was more akin to sunlight than a candle or lantern. True, she did not experience discomfort at the actual sun being on her, but perhaps the reaction was a defense mechanism.

He was thinking entirely too much on this, but then he supposed that he simply did not really want to see this room as she did.

Instead, he shrugged, offering the first reason that had come to mind. "The light charms hurt your eyes, Miss Granger."

She was taken aback by his statement. Surely, his curiosity at whatever his family had been up to should outweigh any concern for her. She didn't believe for a moment that he could actually be considerate of her. For the sake of her own sanity, she ignored entirely that he'd _let_ her feed from him that second time.

"I'll be fine," she said, lifting a hand to shield her eyes preemptively . . . and perhaps a little to hide the incredulous expression on her face.

"If you insist," the words tumbled out exasperated. "Lumos _Maxima_!"

The entire room sprang into sickeningly real greys and dull, muddy browns, streaked and marred by splashes of deep, _old_ red. Darker than blood should be, nearly black save for where the light from his wand glistened off the dried splatter here and there.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

She'd not been able to see the mess before, only the shapes. She understood vaguely that while she saw perfectly in low light now, in the pitch-darkness just moments ago her vision had been . . . different. A sight devoid of color or subtlety of shades. Flat black defined by gleaming lines that gave everything form.

Now that she could see _normally_ , she pivoted away from Mr. Malfoy to face into the room, to see just how many of her kind were down here. How many were chained to the walls in a picture of eternal agony.

Hermione wasn't sure if the panic swelling, visceral and icy-sharp in her gut as she counted eight in all, was a fear for herself or some strange, instinctive and utterly inexplicable loyalty toward what she was now. Toward what they _had_ been when they'd still had thought . . . and flesh and hearts.

Her throat closed and she felt tears spring to her eyes, but fought to keep them where they were given what had happened the last time she'd cried.

She was entirely oblivious to her host's own horror. Lucius was barely keeping his stomach from going into revolt at the scene in which they'd found themselves. His movements stiff, limbs numb, he crossed the floor to the skeleton chained before Miss Granger.

"I don't understand," he murmured against the quiet, the sound of his voice slipping through the chamber like water escaping cracked glass as he knelt to peer more closely at the poor victim of whatever terrible fate had taken place here. What truly unnerved him was how this fit in with his observations in the upper levels of the house just that very morning.

About the darkness of the passages. About the shadowed nooks. About how one could traverse the corridors of Malfoy Manor without once having to glimpse the sun.

But who were these people? How long had they been down here? Had they—lulled into security by how . . . 'vampire friendly' the manor seemed—walked down here to their own deaths and not even known?

"Is this what's to become of me?"

Her hollow, troubled voice broke into his equally troubled reverie. Lucius turned his head to look up at her. "What?"

"This." She'd only just barely heard him over the odd, dense pressure in her ears as she tried to tell herself the horrid scene was nothing to do with her. "Is this what happens to . . . ." Hermione had to force a gulp down her throat before she could continue. "To someone like me? Is this why there seem to be so few?" She shook her head, her features twisting in a pained grimace. "Why there's so little known about them—about _us_?"

Lucius drew a breath, letting it out slow as he returned his attention to the skeleton. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. I've no idea."

She backpedaled a few steps, her footfalls silent. Why it mattered to her, she wasn't sure, she shouldn't care beyond reasons of her own safety, but somehow it hurt to wonder if this was an act. If he could've brought her here knowing at least _something_ of this.

"Is that the truth of it?"

Once more he looked up at her; once more the question escaped, small and nearly breathless, "What?"

Swallowing hard, she met his gaze. "I think you're indeed shocked to be standing here, in this dreadful place, whatever it actually was, but . . . are you going to honestly tell me you had no idea one of your ancestors might've, I dunno, slaughtered over a half-dozen vampires in your basement?"

Lucius shot to his feet, thoroughly annoyed at the accusation. "Are you seriously suggesting that my family—?"

"That your family what, Mr. Malfoy?" She thundered on, dangerously close to letting that vicious, hungry crimson flood her gaze. "Murdered people like _me_? Because I think the evidence of that is fairly obvious!"

At her raise in decibel, sparks flew from somewhere behind them.


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty-One**

Sharing a surprised glance, they turned to look. Far back in the room along the wall on entryway's other side a long wooden table, its dusty surface pocked and scarred, was covered with archaic tools . . . scrolls . . . and three fully-set candelabra, the wicks of which had, quiet apparently, flamed to life at her outburst.

Her brow furrowed as she asked, "Did I . . . ?"

Lucius nodded slow. "Yes, I believe you did." In delayed reaction to this new source of illumination, he murmured, "Nox," extinguishing his wand.

They stared at one another, more than a little skeptical at the notion while they whispered in the same breath, "Wandless magic?"

She shook her head, looking down at her own hands and the returning her gaze to his. "But how? Magic requires direction. I wasn't even thinking about light or . . . or fire, or . . . anything."

"No, but you were angry," he pointed out, nodding. "And there is no better metaphor for anger than fire, Miss Granger."

Realization struck hard, leaving an uncomfortable curling sensation in the pit of her stomach that reflected in her tone as she whispered, dumbfounded, "I'm a child."

Lucius eyebrows pinched upward as he very obviously waited for her to clarify. The young woman was many things, but a child was nowhere among them. He was ignoring that her observation made _him_ uncomfortable because of how close they'd gotten—physically, at least—in the space of just under twenty-four hours.

Something of his internal response to her statement flashed in his expression and her shoulders slumped as she noted it. Neither of them wanted to address the elephant in the room, in fact, they each seemed perfectly content to go right on acting as though said elephant was nothing more than an average piece of furniture that . . . simply so happened to be source of tension and take up quite a bit of mental and emotional space.

"What I mean is it's like when you're a child and you can't control when your magic bursts out of you, because you don't realize it's happening."

He frowned in thought. "Perhaps you are, then." Holding up a hand, he tacked on. "Newly come into magic, I mean. After a fashion, at least. Whoever did this to you, if they suspected you'd turn, they might have taken your wand deliberately because they knew it would no longer work properly for you."

"But we just saw that I can still do magic." Initially she'd tried not to think about the loss of her wand, because she had thought for certain with her 'death' she'd lost her magic.

"It's probably not the same." Lucius shrugged. "Certainly, our emotions can get the better of us and make bizarre things happen around us from time to time, but this?" he asked, gesturing to the candles. Those were a _lot_ of wicks. "Is something more wild, yet more refined. I suspect your old wand would no longer function for you, were it still in your possession. Well, not as a wand that's truly your own should, anyway."

Completely taken away from the situation—from the horrid torture room with its blood and its apparent research table and its very literal skeletons—she blinked at the floor in a daze. "I'm going to have to learn to control my magic all over again."

He nodded, his lips pursed. "We'll simply toss it on the to-do list, right beneath finding out who murdered you, keeping you from getting murdered again if that was their intent, _and_ sussing out how you're supposed to live like this."

"Don't make this all sound so flippant!"

"Miss Granger," he said, drawing a deep breath in through his nostrils—and instantly regretting it in the musty air. "You have to prioritize. What is more important? Your life or your magic?"

Her brow furrowed. She hadn't considered it in that way, however . . . . "Mr. Malfoy, if I'm going to end up setting things ablaze with my temper, we should consider that my magic might be a threa _t to_ my life. Or yours."

"Fair point."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Thinking a moment, he nodded. "We'll somehow work on you relearning to control your magic. I don't suppose going to Olivander's is an option." Mr, Ollivander wasn't in good health, and Lucius doubted it would do the old man's heart any favors to see a Malfoy _and_ someone of whom he—he Ollivander, not he Lucius Malfoy, because _he_ didn't have any such feeling—was still quite fond, whose magic had changed in a way likely to launch Ministry-attention-grabbing red flags.

There was a twinge of unpleasantness at imagining Miss Granger getting dragged away as though she were suddenly no different than any other magical creature. He pushed it aside and started toward the table, eager to be out of this room, yet understanding she was not likely to go until they had a clearer picture.

"We'll have to learn how to craft a new one."

"Because of course it's that simple." Her voice escaped under her breath while she followed him, but in the quiet of the room, he heard her.

"Hence my saying we'll _learn."_

She ignored his deliberate—and repeated—use of the word 'we.' When they reached the table, however, the sight of those archaic tools, so hard to identity from afar, but now easily recognizable for their terrible purpose, reminded her of what had led to this seemingly non-sequitur turn the conversation had taken. Tools with jagged, unforgiving teeth and sharp, terrifying points.

Tools with dark stains and broken bits, though she could guess where those bits would be found.

Abruptly she returned her focus to her first horrid discovery. "You never answered me. About _them_."

Lucius glanced over his shoulder, back at the lost souls chained to other wall for the briefest of heartbeats. "I don't know how you'd think I could've known."

Her teeth flashed in agitation, the points of her canines extending of their own volition. "Because if your past actions, if your family's past actions, have ever taught me _anything_ , it's that a Malfoy isn't to be trusted easily!" Agitation, and perhaps even anger at herself for the sharp, unhappy awareness that after the incredibly strained and unusual day they'd shared, she _had_ been starting to trust him.

His brow furrowed, but she couldn't tell if he was annoyed or hurt. "I helped you, I didn't have to. I'm _still_ helping you."

"That's my point!" She bit hard into her lower lip—fangs and all—barely wincing, barely feeling it as she accidentally broke the skin. "I've never known your family to do anything that didn't somehow serve themselves. Even when you watch out for one another, it's because the only thing a Malfoy cares for is another Malfoy!"

Lucius' dignified features pinched. "Tread cautiously, Miss Granger."

"You'd believe different in my place?" She didn't care for his tone— _she_ was the one with the right to be angry. "You just so happened to bring home a vampire to help figure out how her new existence works and it turns out there was, by sheer coincidence, a vampire murder dungeon three floors beneath your feet?"

" _Yes!"_ he exploded, his hand clenched, white-knuckled around his wand. "What do you need to hear, Miss Granger?" The question came out tired, ragged and quiet in the wake of that irate burst.

She sniffled, hating her sudden tears. Hated how one escaped her lashes. She wanted to go to Harry, but he was a new father, she couldn't endanger him, Ginny, or little James. Ron, well, that'd be drama. Years ago she might've turned to him.

She _couldn't_ bring this to anyone she considered a friend.

Staring up at Lucius Malfoy, a crimson tear staining her cheek and blood welling on her lip, clad in borrowed, too-long nightclothes, she imagined she made quite the pathetic picture for the terrifying creature she supposedly was now. "I need you to _swear_ to me you didn't know, because a hope that I can trust you is all I have."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

He could tell she did not mean for him to swear an Unbreakable Vow to never lie to her, nothing quite so dramatic or lofty—ignoring that there was no third party whom they could have cast it—nor was she about to insist they go to the effort and time of brewing some Veritaserum. In her tone, in those irritatingly large, deceptively innocent, red-brown eyes, he read that it was simpler, yet somehow to her more significant, than that.

She simply wanted his word. His unveiled, steadily-voiced promise. Needed it. And were he in her place? No, he could not say he would want otherwise.

"Miss Granger," he began, but then with a mildly exasperated breath rushing out of him, he shook his head and started again. Clamping his hands—which, in this moment, measured against her slight frame seemed overly large and utterly incapable of gentleness—over her shoulders in a deliberately delicate grasp, he held her gaze as he said, "Hermione Granger . . . I promise you, I knew absolutely nothing of this room _or_ what my ancestors might've done here."

Hermione hated that she could feel her lower lip tremble as she stared up at him. It seemed complete madness that she could be here in this desperate situation with Lucius Malfoy—of _all_ people—her port in the storm.

She was nearly positive she'd never heard him speak her first name before. Miss Granger or . . . . Wait. How odd. Now that she thought on it, even with everything she'd heard fly out of this man's mouth during their many brief yet unpleasant encounters during her school years, she'd never once heard him speak the word _Mudblood_. Draco had said it enough times, though she imagined he was just as likely to have picked that up from his pure-blood friends, since she didn't recall ever hearing Narcissa Malfoy say it, either.

She . . . didn't hate the sound of his voice speaking her first name. There was something in his eyes, she didn't know what it was precisely, but felt sure it meant he _was_ being honest.

"Really?"

"In _all_ sincerity, before what happened last night, I had believed vampires were a myth of the wizarding world as surely as they were of the Muggle world, only more plausible in ours."

Lowering her head, she thought for a moment. Despite his willingness to approach the table, to stay in this room, she could tell how uncomfortable he was. Her own anxieties had subsided a little with his promise. Strange, but she wondered if this was some effect of having taken his blood—this closeness that was being fostered between them.

Of course, it could simply also be that they were alone together under incredibly bizarre circumstances and she'd already literally _clung_ to him to wander his throat with her mouth twice in less than twenty-four hours.

She made a show of looking about the room, unable meet his gaze again just now. "Will you help me find out what happened down here? What was done to these people and who they were?"

Lucius withdrew his hands from her shoulders and pressed his palms to his forehead as he exhaled sharply. "I will help you find out what happened down here. With any luck, what was done to them might be recorded in these scrolls. However, I doubt we're likely to learn their identities. So, I will help you with what _can_ be learned here, yes. But you must remember there are things more important at the present time."

Nodding, she started picking up the dusty scrolls.

"What _are_ you doing?" He seemed aghast at the amount of ashy soot she was sprinkling about so liberally with even the smallest of movements.

"Taking these back upstairs with us, of course."

"Miss Granger," he said in a weary tone, "we already have a full plate before us, don't you think? We are the only two people in the world who know this room exists. It will still be here after we're sure you are . . . ." His voice trailed off and his gaze became unfocused.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Hermione was suddenly very alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Lucius frowned, offering one of his usual languid, almost lazy shrugs, but this one seemed to require a bit more effort than normal. "I'm not sure. I _was_ fine, then my head started to spin a little."

The witch's features pinched in thought before she dropped back her head and groaned. "Of course, we're _so_ stupid!"

"Not likely."

Her eyes narrowed as she set her head straight, clearly not feeling this the time for quips. She pulled one of his arms around her shoulders, the scrolls secured against her opposite side, and started walking them toward the staircase. "What I meant _was_ I've taken your blood twice between last night and now, and you've not eaten _a thing_ since before you brought me here."

He tried to shake her off in a somewhat half-hearted gesture—it was more for show, demonstrating his irritation, she was certain, than an actual attempt to remove her from his person—as they climbed the steps. "I can walk on my own, Miss Granger!"

"Mr. Malfoy, this _isn't_ a request," she answered, vaguely irritated herself with his stubbornness. "Nor is it a suggestion that you're weak, but you are human, and _I_ have clearly depleted you."

His mouth curved in a sneer, but he offered no more arguments. He felt . . . well, he didn't feel so weak he needed assistance walking, yet he did understand the very real possibility that if she let him go and he became dizzy again, he might tumble down the staircase.

God, he _hated_ this situation. As though having this . . . Muggle-born vampire in his home, and using him as food wasn't _odd_ enough, because discovering a secret vampire torture chamber in the bowels of his ancestral home wasn't _stressful_ enough, no. _Now_ he was going to have said vampire minding his dietary habits. Insufferable!

When they reached the old servants' quarters, she started guiding him toward the proper doorway of the room, ignoring the flight of steps that would've led back to the upper levels of the house. "Let's see if this really does let out into the kitchen, shall we?" she said, though it wasn't really a question, because they were already nearly there before she spoke, clearly not waiting for his input.

She turned, pushing against the door with her shoulder until it gave way. Indeed, it let out into the kitchen. Once on the other side, they both turned to look. She had never seen the Malfoy kitchens before, and wondered how he'd never noticed a random door sooner. He was curious for precisely the same reason.

As the door swung fully closed, they realized that when shut, the seams of the door lined perfectly with the tiled pattern of this particular wall. No knob or anything to reveal it, or permit accidental opening. The only way would be via magic, and to even bother, one would have to know the door was there. She supposed that made sense—she'd only found the door on the upper level because she had been deliberately searching for it.

Now that they were on level flooring, no danger of him breaking his neck on ancient stone steps looming, she became acutely aware of Lucius Malfoy's warm body against hers. Clearing her throat, she dropped her hand from his waist and stepped out from beneath his arm.

She moved further away to set the scrolls down upon the nearest counterspace. "Now, you sit and I'll make you something. Tea should be a nice start, yes?"

His brow furrowing, he dragged himself over to a seat at the black-lacquered kitchen table. "Of course, tea." Honestly! Did she take him for being wholly uncivilized? "Not certain I trust a person who can't eat food to prepare some for me, though."

"Mr. Malfoy," she began in admonishment, making a beeline for the pantry, "I'll remind you I was as human as you just yesterday afternoon. I'm sure it'll be fine."

Hermione did not account for the way her stomach would roil and revolt at the sight of what humans considered food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I love that so many of you were like 'gasp! It was something in the dust, wasn't it?' 'Did Hermione's new powers do something to him?' 'Oh, no, there's something else in that dungeons, isn't there?' Like, nah, he's just human XD)


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Hermione backpedaled from the pantry, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. When she turned to face the kitchen, Lucius shot up from the chair, alarmed.

And immediately regretted it, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead as he sank back down to sit. "Well, that wasn't the wisest decision I've ever made," he said to himself in a hissing whisper, tacking on louder, "Miss Granger, what's the matter? You look . . . green."

She forced a weak nod as she crossed the floor. Reaching the table, she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. Bracing her elbow on the surface, she merely gave herself a moment, her hand never once leaving her face.

He watched her warily and after a moment, she managed—speaking through her fingers—in a murmur, "I, um, well, I must tell you I _feel_ a little green, Mr. Malfoy."

His shoulders slumped, the enchanted overhead lights of the kitchen playing across the black silk of his dressing gown, and he sighed. "Somehow I never thought 'nausea' would be on the list of things to worry about."

"Makes two of us," she responded with a mirthless laugh.

"Was it the food or the prospect of brewing tea?"

She slipped her hand from her face, finally. Holding up a finger, she opened her mouth to answer, closed it with a particularly determined look on her face, and tried again, the words forming slow. "I think it was definitely the food. I was fine until I was in the pantry actually looking at it."

Lucius nodded. "Very well." He got to his feet and started for the pantry, himself.

"Wait, Mr. Malfoy! You're hardly in any condition to—"

"I'd say I'm in far better condition than you to handle it," he called over his shoulder. "We've seen what happens when you cry, I dread to imagine the horror and aftermath of vomiting."

Hermione winced, hard, the bridge of her nose crinkling so tight with the expression it caused the skin to itch. "I hadn't considered that."

"Clearly."

She wholly ignored the chuckle she thought she heard edging his voice. "Well, this situation certainly isn't ideal."

"Which part isn't ideal, Miss Granger?" he asked distractedly as he rummaged for something simple yet filling and as nutritious as he was evidently going to require from now on—he was braced for her to have some snide, clever little quip about how shocking it was to imagine a pure-blood preparing a meal for themselves—and came back to the counter beside the stove with a steak and a seemingly random assortment of fruit. "You becoming a vampire? Me being the only person you've got help you? You using me as sustenance? The discovery of my family having one _or more_ vampire-murdering lunatics in its history, or your becoming queasy at the mere sight of food?"

She glared at him. After setting the steak to sear in a pan, he tore into the fruit to give his system something while the meat cooked. "I meant all of it, but thanks for whittling it down so that I seem like I'm being flippant."

He set aside the piece of fruit and gripped his hands against the lip of the counter, his back still to her. Lucius Malfoy hung his head, a sigh escaping him. "I know that. It's simply, as you say, that this situation isn't ideal. If I'm to be honest, I've no idea what we're doing, or what we should be doing, about _any_ of this."

As she watched the wizard, this proud pure-blood who hadn't seemed to miss a step or lose any part of himself with all that had been taken from him after the Second War, she felt a strange calming sensation spread through her chest. There was something oddly soothing about his admittance, about the faint raw edge to his tone.

She wondered when the last time was he'd been so open with anyone.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Hermione was struck with an awareness that she . . . _liked_ this vulnerable side of Lucius Malfoy. She _liked_ that there was something strangely endearing in the thought that she was seeing an aspect of the man that he typically fought tooth and nail to conceal.

Lowering her gaze to her hands on the tabletop, she intertwined her fingers simply to give herself something to focus on other than him. This was no time for ... silly schoolgirl whimsy, and it would certainly _never_ be a time for it about Lucius bloody Malfoy!

"Well, I think sometimes it's, maybe, all right to admit you don't know what you're doing," she offered with a shrug, a wince pinching her features as she shrugged. She could already imagine him losing whatever precious little patience might be left over her attempt at appeasement.

He. Actually. _Laughed_. Lucius turned the steak in the pan, exhaling as he shook his head. "There're some moments, Miss Granger, when it becomes glaringly evident how very different our lives have been."

Not only was this possibly the most honest, unbarred conversation she'd ever had with him, but she was also aware this was possibly the longest she'd been comfortably in the same room with him in all the years she'd known him.

It was strange to remember that she'd been a child on the brink of 13 when they'd met at Flourish and Blotts. Hmm. Now that she thought back, she did recall finding the imposing, finely dressed man rather nice looking.

Snapping shut her eyes, she twisted her fingers hard, distracting herself from the sudden blush flaring in her cheeks. How terribly embarrassing to realize only now—only now as he stood barely two meters from her—that as a girl, she'd found this insufferable, elitist pure-blood handsome

Oh, the _nerve_ of her younger self!

Clearing her throat, she forced herself to speak, wondering if she'd let the room lapse into silence long enough that he might be starting to worry what was going through her head. "You know, it's been my experience that when faced with an . . . uncommon or difficult situation, it's best when the parties involved don't share similar backgrounds." She shrugged, opening her eyes as she shook her head. "If we both came from the same sort of history or upbringing, we might only be able to bring the same ideas or realizations to the table."

Mr. Malfoy—curse him—turned to look at her, curious. Leaning his hips back against the counter beside the stove, he braced the heel of one hand on the ledge and with the other selected something from that assortment of fruit. _Clearly_ unaware of the picture he presented, he lifted the pear to his lips for a slow, thoughtful bite.

She hated that she was acutely cognizant of his teeth sinking into the pear's flesh, of the soft suckling sound as he bit down and pulled the fruit from his mouth.

Clearly unaware as he nodded, the cool intelligence behind those grey eyes working. "You've a point, Miss Granger. I dare say it's perhaps fortunate that it was you who was turned and not anyone else, or answers to any of this might be a bit beyond our reach."

Had he just complimented her? On her intellectual prowess, no less? Oh! Hermione _had_ to find something else to occupy her mind!

"Um, know what?" She stood and hurried to pick up the scrolls, for a moment regretful that it brought her close to him. Meeting his gaze, she scrambled for a moment. _Stupid_. "Since . . . since I can't eat and watching you might make me ill, I think I'll take these over there," she nodded to a table set beneath the window. "See if I can find anything."

Lucius nodded. She missed the uncertain frown that played on his lips as he watched her bustle past. For all the things she was noticing and he was unaware, it was perhaps fortunate that she did not see the way his gaze lingered on her as she drifted further away from him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Hermione carefully brushed what dust remained from the brittle surface of the scrolls. She toyed delicately with the edges, tugged at the strings holding them closed, light, experimental.

She sat back, then leaned forward again, peering at the still-furled parchments closely. Reaching out to run her finger along the seam of the closest of the bundle, she made a small, thoughtful sound.

 _Then_ she began the process anew.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Lucius' sudden bark from across the kitchen made her jump. "Open a damn scroll, already!"

She turned enormous eyes on the wizard, her palm pressed—melodramatically, in his opinion, as her heart didn't beat—between her breasts. She—again with her melodrama, perhaps it was simply her, or perhaps vampires were prone to it, who knew?—exhaled loudly. "Dear Lord, Mr. Malfoy! You nearly scared the life out of me."

Oh, this was too precious—she seemed wholly unaware of the turn of phrase she'd just used. His brows pinching upward, he merely held her gaze in a calm stare. Having finished his steak in far fewer bites than it normally would've taken him given his dire need of nourishment, he merely sipped his tea as he waited for her to catch up.

After another of his patient sips, she tipped her head to one side. It was nearly comical how fast her eyes went from growing wide enough to seem in danger of falling from her head to narrowed in murderous little slits. Lucius was surprised he managed to keep a chuckle over the spectacle to himself.

"Oh, shut up," she said in a hissing whisper.

He allowed a snicker to escape, then. Taking another sip, he watched her as she returned her attention to the scrolls.

"I just . . . . I don't want to damage them," she reasoned aloud, her voice not nearly as firm as she would've liked. "They are quite old, after all."

He nodded, setting down his cup against its saucer with a soft clink. When she still had yet to touch them, he let out a long, loud sigh. "Do you think there's a chance you're not being honest with yourself, Miss Granger?"

 _I'm absolutely_ not _being honest with myself, Mr. Malfoy, about a great many things since last night, could you be a tad more specific?_ The question rattled through her mind and she frowned. Instead, she responded, "How do you mean?"

Lucius shook his head, a mirthless smile curving his lips for a moment as he stood from the table. "Is it, perhaps, possible you don't want to look because you're aware whatever was done to poor souls downstairs might be recorded there and you don't truly _want_ to know?"

Hermione sat back as far as the chair would allow, staring at one of the scrolls as she idly circled the edge of the parchment with the tip of one finger. "Well . . . perhaps that's so. I think being that I'm the same as what they were, I can't help worrying that I'll identify with them too strongly."

"Well, you always were rumored to be too compassionate for your own good," he said as he crossed the kitchen.

"Funny, and here I thought I was rumored to be an insufferable know-it-all."

A chuckle rumbled out of him as he came to a halt just behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at the scrolls. "There is that, but we are, all of us, made up of flaws and merits, are we not?"

She ignored that a smile was playing on her lips at his words. That smile faded just as fast as he thoughtlessly reached past her. His long fingers—curse it all, _why_ was she noticing his hands?—closed around one of the scrolls.

He opened it with delicate movements and unfurled it. When he let out a breath and then inhaled to begin reading the contents aloud, Hermione shivered.

She cursed herself, now, that she'd been unable to ignore the sweep of his exhalation against the side of her throat.

Worse, she was cognizant of how he froze in response.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Standing impossibly still behind her, Lucius merely stared at her for a few strained heartbeats. He could tell himself he'd imagined the tiny tremor that had just shaken her or he could allow himself to notice, yet lie about the source. Yes, he could certainly do that—he could tell himself that maybe vampires got chilly. After all, how would _he_ know the difference? Whatever the source of her shiver, it could not be his nearness.

Clearing his throat, he returned his attention to the scroll he'd unfurled. "This is dated 18th of March, 1684."

"That's five years before the Statute of Secrecy went into effect."

His thoughtfully narrowed grey eyes flickered back to her for a split-second as he asked, "You think that might have something to do with what we found?"

"Well, of course we can't know it does, but . . . ." She shrugged, shaking her head. "Maybe you never knew anything about that chamber because whoever was responsible had to hush it all up to comply with the Statute?"

Those refined Malfoy features pinched in a troubled look. "That would mean those vampires were Muggles."

"Oh, another thing I have in common with the murder victims in your family's secret torture room!"

Lucius was tired already from her dramatics. Pinching between his brows with his free hand as he tried not to crumple the old parchment of the scroll with the other, he sighed. "You're not a Muggle, Miss Granger."

Her expression soured. "Muggle-born, so very nearly!"

Leaning sideways just enough to angle his head so that he could catch her gaze, he said, "Are you quite finished?" He waved the scroll in reminder.

Shifting where she sat, she folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and nodded.

With something of a flourish, he once more took the scroll between both hands, straightening to his full height behind her. " _Once more, I have caught Patricia_ —"Hermione noticed that he said the name oddly, Pah-tree-cee-a, and she wondered if perhaps that specific pronunciation of it was a common girls' name in the Malfoy family—" _down in the oubliette visiting them_. _It would seem she has_ . . . . Hmm . . . ."

Hermione turned a little in the chair, looking up at him. "Hmm?"

After a sigh, he frowned. "Well, you know what an oubliette is, don't you?"

"Of course." She was Hermione Granger, after all! "It's a secret dungeon, just as we found."

He bit his lip, wondering if he should wait for her to go that step further between what they'd found and what would _make_ what they'd found fit the word, or if he should simply point out the discrepancy himself.

Already she recognized the look in his eyes as expectancy. The delicate skin under her own eyes tightened as she held his gaze. Why on earth was he biting his lip? Didn't he want her to _think_ just now?

"No," she managed, finding her voice—stupid perfect Malfoy teeth sinking into a stupid, perfect Malfoy lower lip like that. "It's a secret dungeon accessed by a trap door, or hole, in the _ceiling_."

"Precisely." He rolled up the scroll and touched it to his chin. "My family has always prized the use of words, Miss Granger."

_Of course they did, because clearly this entire incident was designed by the Powers That Be to illustrate that you're essentially perfect aside from your elitist pure-blood rubbish._

"So then why," he went on, unnoticing apparently, of her struggle to ignore his _stupid_ , _perfect_ face, "would any one of us use such a precise word incorrectly?"

She felt the wind get knocked out of her as she said in a breathless whisper, "Perhaps it's another place they're referring to?"

"Because you imagine there's more than one 'secret vampire murder dungeon' beneath my home?"

Hermione blanched at the mental picture of a network of torture chambers hidden under Malfoy Manor. "Or, perhaps it . . . ." She shrugged, retrying somewhat lamely, "Perhaps it _was_ an oubliette at the time?"

Reluctant interest sparked in his eyes. "Perhaps it was. We never did look at the ceiling."

She shrugged again. "We'd need to check to be sure it's the same place, then."

Before Hermione realized they were moving, Lucius had taken her hand to pull her from the chair and started leading her back through the old servants' quarters. She ignored the warmth of his strong, _stupid, perfect_ fingers clasping hers the entire way.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

They stared up at the ceiling, neither speaking for what seemed hours, but—realistically—no more than a minute or two could've ticked past. The candelabras still in the room hadn't quite provided enough light, and so Lucius had once more illuminated his wand, giving Hermione warning enough that she was able to shield her eyes until she adjusted to the burst of brightness.

Being rather tall, he raised his wand arm as high as he could reach. They'd tipped back their heads in unison and simply gaped.

"Well . . . ." She started, forcing a little gulp down her throat. "That . . . that's . . . ."

"That's certainly a hole in the ceiling," he finished for her with a sharp nod.

"Um." She wasn't sure why the sight of the deep black circle set off a chill in the pit of her stomach, and yet it did. "If that's here then . . . where does it lead?"

"No idea, obviously." His answer came out a bit gruff, causing her to wonder if he'd been insulted at the question, as though she was sincerely asking him for an answer. "I do believe I'd recall happening across a gaping hole in one of the upper floors, Miss Granger."

Pursing her lips, she lowered her gaze from their proof that the dungeon _had_ once, in fact, been an oubliette, and pivoted on her heel to face him.

After a breath, he seemed to feel the weight of her attention. Arching a brow, he turned his head, catching hers eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy," she started with a false calmness.

"Miss Granger."

Her shoulders slumped. "What sort of idiot do you take me for?"

His features pinched as he considered whether or not it would be in his own best interest to reply or to keep his thoughts to himself. He wanted to be snide, to say 'the sort cursed to an eternity as one of the undead?', instead, he considered the merit of not joking with a visibly irritated vampire.

"I don't take you for one at all, Miss Granger."

Hermione's brows lifted at his unexpected honesty. "What I meant wasn't 'would you happen to have nearly fallen into a random pit somewhere in your house as a child?' I _meant_ were there perhaps any suspiciously never-used rooms, or maybe any that were walled up? Any place you were cautioned never to go? That you likewise told Draco never to go without ever really having investigated yourself?"

His responding expression didn't exactly inspire hope. "I'm afraid nothing comes to mind."

"Well . . . ." She hated what she was thinking, but they were all over the place. The sooner this particular question was answered, the sooner they could move on. And, yes, perhaps she was stalling just a little now on learning what horrors had been visited upon these poor lost souls. "I suppose the only way to know where that leads—or, more appropriately, where it starts—is for one of us to go up there."

Lucius let out a rich, barking chuckle at that notion. "Oh, Miss Granger, you can't be . . . ." His voice trailed off as he watched her hurry over to the table to retrieve one of the candelabras. Grey eyes wide and expression incredulous, he gaped at her as she pranced back to stand before him.

"C'mon," she said, making a good show of nonchalance and easy bravery which she absolutely did not feel. "Levicorpus, have at it."

"You're a mad woman," he said in a low whisper.

"Not the first time I've been told that." Her false brightness wasn't fooling him, but he showed the good grace not to pick at her façade.

"How utterly unsurprising."

"Look, neither you nor I expected _any_ of this when we woke up yesterday morning, did we? But now we somehow have a mystery that's strangely nothing to do with what happened to me. Yet, everything we do just brings more questions. So, we answer this question, then we get back to those scrolls."

Lucius sighed, shaking his head. There was no arguing with the woman. "As you wish, Miss Granger."


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

Of all the concerns Hermione could possibly have—as she was being lifted by magic through a pit of darkness in the ceiling of an ancient murder-dungeon that let out who knew where in a house where she'd once been tortured—she was absolutely beside herself that the first place her mind went was to whether Lucius Malfoy could see up her nightdress.

Ridiculous! And yet, she went to the trouble of using her free hand to secure the black silk around her thighs.

"What are you doing?"

It was only at his question that she realized her one-armed struggle with herself must look quite odd. "Never you mind that, Mr. Malfoy, kindly just focus on not dropping me. I'll shout if I reach the end or come across anything."

"You're shouting already," he pointed out in a grumble.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, just keep your wits about you up there."

Hermione nodded, aware he couldn't see the gesture of acknowledgment. As she entered the opening in the ceiling, she became irritated that she needed to relinquish her grip on her nightdress. The candle flames were coming into contact with dusty layers of cobweb as they she moved higher.

Holding her breath, she ducked her head, wiping clear whatever was immediately over her. After several feet, there was nothing but bricks and mortar.

_Thud._ "Ouch!"

Lucius was ashamed of himself that in his moment—fleeting and small—of panic, he felt his magic falter. Immediately reinforcing the charm, he called out, "Are you all right?"

"Yes! Just keep me steady. I seem to have hit some sort of cover," she called down, thumping her fist against the surface above her head.

Frowning, she pushed experimentally, looking it over in the flickering candlelight. In the tight area, with the flames close to her face, she was grateful she'd be free shortly. She didn't imagine her sweat—if she _could_ sweat—was going to be much different from her tears.

"Can you move it?"

She traced the thick, pocked grain with her gaze. "Wood. I think I can definitely get through it. Just wait."

Bracing her knees against the brick, she pressed her fist, wrapped around the candelabra into the opposite side, leaving the Levicorpus to act as safety net. "All right," she said to herself a whisper, "you can do this, vampire strength. Okay."

Lucius heard a sharp crack. Wide eyed, he forced himself to maintain the charm. "Miss Granger?!"

Hermione pulled her fist back out of the hole she'd made in the old wood. Shaking out her fingers, she responded, "I'm fine. Just might take another shot or two to get enough space to pull myself up."

His brows shot up. "You're striking it?" _And putting her fist_ through _it! Her delicate little fist. Best remember that for future reference._

"If you can think of a better way for me to get past it to figure out where this leads, I'm all ears." Another sharp crack followed her words.

"Um, no, no. Nothing comes to mind, sorry."

Another sharp crack and she let out a triumphant, wordless shout. "Just a minute."

Hermione carefully eased the candelabra through the opening she'd created and settled it on what was left of the flat surface. Hooking her hands into either side now, she started hoisting herself up.

"You can stop now, Mr. Malfoy," she called down before she was through, confident she no longer required that magical net.

"What can you see? Is there a door, or a—"

"Oh, my God!"

"Miss Granger?!" He was getting tired of this—she was liable to turn his platinum hair white with her nonsense.

"I'm okay," she shouted down, her voice sounding oddly thick. "I see a door, but I've a feeling it'll probably takes some work to get out. You go to the kitchen, I'll meet you there and lead you back here so you can see what I found."

"All right," Lucius called up. Though he started for the staircase, he wasn't certain he wanted to know what she'd discovered, anymore than he was relishing the notion of a vampire-witch tearing a hole through one of the walls of his home.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Miss Granger was white as a sheet—though, Lucius did reflect on how idiotic an observation that was, as she was considerably paler since becoming a vampire—as she stood in the kitchen, having somehow made it there before he had. Either the room that hatch let out into was closer than the oubliette, or . . . .

He glanced from her to the ceiling and back. "How did you—?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she said, holding up her hands, her eyes wide. "I was running, trying to make up time since I don't know your house at all, but the next thing I knew, I was standing on the ground floor. It was easy to find the kitchen from there."

His brows pinched together. "Huh." He nodded. "That's an observation for later.. Now, back to that room, yes?"

Hermione nodded, turning to lead him back toward the room.

"This time no running, please."

Her shoulders slumped as she started walking. "And here I thought you believed I wasn't an idiot."

He smirked, holding in a chuckle.

As he trailed her through the house and back up the stairs, he noticed she pinched the nightdress between her fingers—her delicate little fingers—to lift the hem away from her feet as she climbed. Such an elegant and ladylike gesture, so terribly in contrast with the notion that she'd torn through wood and possibly stone with her bare hands just moments earlier.

Those delicate little hands didn't look the least bit damaged for her troubles, either.

Lucius was overcome with the very real concern that he didn't know if it was good or bad to have a . . . _companion_ like her. On one hand, in a sticky situation her new talents were certainly an asset. On the other, he didn't think the manor had the structural integrity to withstand much more of her 'curiosity.'

She led him to the end of the east wing. He knew they were over the oubliette, so it didn't surprise him when he found the wall torn open and a door half off its hinges hanging backward into the room that'd been revealed. No surprise at all, though he was dismayed about having to carefully step over bits of rubble and splintered wood.

"C'mon." She entered the room, and he poked his head in before following.

The light inside was because she'd placed that candelabra atop a tall bureau. It cast just enough illumination that he didn't need a light charm to see what was here. But for the way she reacted . . . . "A simple bedroom?"

Hermione's lips curved in a mirthless smile. She jutted her chin toward the bed. "Look again."

Holding her gaze for only a moment, he approached the piece of furniture. He knelt to get a closer look, spotting the tethers attached to the posts.

"I was really confused at first. I thought 'what were these ancient Malfoys up to?' Then I noticed . . . there's no windows, no way in or out except the door or _into_ oubliette. As I neared the door, I saw nail marks in the wood. Some of them were dark with old blood. Whoever was in here wanted out, _desperately_."

"A disappointments room?" The air went out of his lungs. He knew such things had existed for centuries, but he'd never been given reason to believe his family'd practiced such cruelty.

"Those are typically on a top floor of a home, so I'm not certain it was. Not exactly." She retrieved an aged garment from an open drawer, the easy movement suggested she'd already looked inside. "Adult clothing." Hermione felt like something was gripping her ribcage. "I think we've stumbled onto something worse, Mr. Malfoy."

He nodded, trying to connect these oddities in a way that didn't churn his stomach with little success. "Patricia," he said in a sudden burst of realization, his gaze meeting Hermione's in the candlelight as he lifted the scroll he'd held all this time. "I think we need to learn just what she was doing with the dungeon's residents."


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do imagine someone with Lucius Malfoy's mane would have hair care products—the finest available in the Wizarding world.

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

" _Once more, I have caught Patricia down in the oubliette visiting_ them. _It would seem she has_ _not yet given up her strange fascination with these creatures. She interrupts my precious work, it matters not. I will learn their secrets."_

They'd returned to the manor's library after retrieving the other scrolls from the kitchen. Though they were both admittedly curious to do a more in-depth examination of the uncovered room, it seemed best to _not_ read what was bound to be an unnerving account while sitting in the place where events from that possibly unnerving account might've occurred.

The pair sat on the chaise, Hermione eyeing the refined, looping scrawl as Lucius read aloud. He was grateful for the distraction, it permitted him to pretend he was not bothered to have her scooted so close to his side that he could feel the coolness of her skin contrasting the warmth of his own through the layers of silk separating them.

He was grateful he could pretend there wasn't something strangely appealing in how her wild locks held the scent of his hair care products. Earlier he'd not noticed—he'd been too aggravated to find her in his bed, too upset with himself to have offered his blood to her a second time, too distracted by more troubling thoughts, which left him feeling woefully exposed here in the quiet library beside her.

When he noticed she was looking at the unfurled scroll with still eyes, he took the opportunity her continued reticence offered to start voicing the long-forgotten words. At a glance, this first scroll was broken into paragraphs, but it became clear fast that it was a journal entry, broken into quick snippets across days.

" _Two night have passed since I last reprimanded her for her intrusions. Another letter from a potential suitor wasted on this foolish young woman. She says these men seeking courtship are unworthy of her, but I know the terrible truth. My daughter refuses to leave_ them."

The contents for the next few entries were much the same, a father lamenting his daughter's poor decisions and her inability to respect his 'work'.

Hermione felt certain they didn't want detailed accounts—though she had a pretty good idea that at least some of those other scrolls contained that very thing. But just as she expected Mr. Malfoy to continue reading, his voice fell silent for entirely too long.

Her eyes refused to make sense of the words. She lifted her gaze to his face, upset at the stinging in the center of her chest as she took in the troubled expression settling over his features.

Unaware of her own action until it was happening, she clutched at his wrist with gentle fingers. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius squared his jaw, uncomfortable with the next entry. There was something _immediate_ about the content. He didn't want to consider the similarities.

" _I caught her this time. Not simply visiting with them as she had insisted before, but letting them feed from her. At last I understand why they have such strength despite my attempts at_ _starvation. I forced her to show me the marks. She was covered in them. Worse, she was defiant. Unashamed. I fear she enjoys the deplorable act of the bite._

_IIfI do not take action, this travesty will become an open blemish upon the House of Malfoy._

"There's more, a little, but I can't . . . ." He swallowed hard, letting the scroll slide closed between his hands and setting it aside. "I can't keep reading this."

Reaching for the scroll, she forced her mind to finally register the writing. She couldn't bring herself to read aloud as he had. But the word _addiction_ was mentioned, as well as resorting to 'drastic measures' to keep Patricia from 'her vampires.'

Lastly, a worry that there was something _wrong_ with their line. Because Patricia was not the first Malfoy to respond to the 'dread creatures' this way.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

In spite of herself, she looked up at him again, letting the horrible document roll closed in her hands as he had. She set it aside, feeling strangely nervous for a moment. Hermione wanted to ask as much as she didn't.

Whatever had happened with Patricia, whatever had been . . . 'wrong' with her, there was no reason to suspect that Lucius Malfoy had the same unusual condition. That he was so visibly troubled by this part the entries, despite that she'd only fed from him twice—the first because she'd attacked him, the second because she'd lost blood in her tears, but still that did lead to _twice_ in less than the passing of a day's time—did naturally lend to the asking of the dreaded, if obvious, question.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Miss Granger?" his tone was dull, lifeless.

Swallowing hard, she asked in a voice that was nearly a whisper, "What does it feel like?"

He met her gaze sharply. Glaring in silence, he waited for her to clarify.

There it was, that expectant look she already recognized. She realized what it was that she recognized about it, because it was not quite the same look another person might give under the same circumstance. It wasn't simply an expression of waiting for something, no. It was something deeper, something more profound.

It was the expectation that came with bracing for pain.

It was that look which made her recoil a little, her gaze locked with his. There was the strangest sense of role reversal—no longer her the predator and he the 'unfortunately willing' prey, but he as a viper waiting to strike, she as the helpless field mouse caught by the venomous creature's mesmerizing stare.

"What does _what_ feel like, Miss Granger?" he prompted, evidently unaware of her shift in perspective. Lucius shook his head, unwittingly breaking the spell. He sounded so tired, world-weary, one might call it—as though he would've known how to accept and process _any_ other turn his life had taken, any other than but the one it had twenty-four hours ago, and he was ready to be done with any more surprises that unexpected turn might offer. "Say what you mean to say."

She almost didn't want to now—not that she'd been incredibly thrilled with the notion of asking the question more completely two minutes ago. If anything, Hermione was troubled by the awareness of not wanting to cause the pain he was so clearly bracing to handle. She wished, impossible as it was _sans_ Time-Turner, that she could go back. That she could ignore the scent that had led them into this most recent, most uncomfortable discovery.

She did not linger on the very strange aspect that simply going back to yesterday morning and choosing _not_ to stop through Wizarding Britain wasn't her first thought. Her first thought, had she the power to change any of what had happened thus far, had been one that still saw to her being here with him.

What an incredibly odd—and unspeakably _long_ —day it had been for the two of them. Even odder that she had to force herself away from wondering if he had any of the same . . . bizarre reflections on their changing dynamic.

But he was waiting, and putting off the question was only giving her time to mull over the upsetting turn of her thoughts. Lowering her eyes to her hands for a moment, she toyed with the edges of her dressing gown's sleeves while gathering her courage before she could meet his gaze, again.

Somehow, she understood this was a question that could only be asked while staring into his eyes.

"When . . . when I bite you," she said, her voice tumbling out low and a little husky quite without intent, feeling her entire body flush with the words. "What does it feel like for you?"


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

He couldn't tell her.

His throat tightened as he held her gaze. How? How could he explain and not make it sound like he was already following this Patricia—of whom he recalled no mention in any family records, at least not during the time that these documents were penned—after only the passing of a single day?

Lucius was very aware of his own form, then. Of the weight of the air in his lungs, of the delicate press of his silken nightclothes against his skin, of the unfortunate warmth dotting the planes of his cheeks.

As he stared into those too-large, too-innocent-seeming reddish brown eyes, a sense settled over him. Heavy, nearly tangible. He couldn't tell her because the experience was not something he could fully put into words.

"I don't believe that is as simple as you think, Miss Granger."

Hermione blinked. His tone somehow set off a thrumming low in her body. She tried to focus on her breathing, to settle herself as she simply sat there, holding his gaze. It didn't have any bearing on her response to his voice, to his nearness, that this was _Lucius_ _Malfoy._

"I'm a clever woman," she said, unable to speak above a breathless whisper, _too_ aware of him sitting so close on the chaise which suddenly seemed far too small. "I'm sure you could figure out some way to make me understand." _Dear_ God _, Hermione! What're you saying?_

"I assure you," he answered, needing the barest second to force a gulp down his throat, "I've never once doubted your cleverness. Were it only that, I _would_ answer."

A soft warmth flooded her chest; she was cognizant how dangerous the words spilling from her lips were. "If you can't tell me, could you show me?"

"I could." He nodded, the low pitch of his voice reasonable. Lucius didn't bother to ask if she understood what she was suggesting—he knew she was perfectly aware. "If you _really_ wish to know?"

Hermione heard what he'd left unvoiced. Did she really wish to know what he felt when she sank her teeth in his flesh _?_ When she pressed her body close to his and drew his blood from the wound with the tip of her tongue?

Her voice refusing to work, she nodded.

Movements tentative, he reached out. Trailing his fingers over her face, he guided her eyelids to close.

She braced, for what, she wasn't entirely sure. Some sort of pain, perhaps. But it never happened.

Those fingers drew lower, down her cheek and over her jaw, tickling every so lightly along the side of her throat. She wasn't shocked to feel his other hand moving up along her leg. Only the faintest pressure of his fingertips edging across her thigh, just a bit toward the inside, but not quite, and then upward.

Simply that. He forced nothing more intimate, only the stroking of his fingers down her throat and along her collarbones and back, up along her thigh through the silk, then once more sweeping downward, and starting all over again.

When a fine tremor shook her, when her breath rushed shivering from her lips, he withdrew.

Hermione was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze. He'd barely done anything, yet she felt unraveled. He'd run his fingers over her and she knew with a dreaded certainty that he'd dampened her knickers.

She remembered his body's response that first time in this very room. There could be other factors that had determined said response, she thought, managing to force her eyes open, forcing herself to meet his gaze. It didn't _mean_ he might be prone to some vile addiction.

"I see," she said, her voice barely audible. "How can you be sure it's the bite and not simply something . . . baser?"

"I can't." He was aware she was correct. Aware that his fear might be seated in not a potential addiction to her bite, but in a desire decidedly more carnal.

"You could. We . . . could," she reasoned, her pale cheeks dotted pink. "If we were to experiment, perhaps."


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize sincerely that this portion of the story (which so many of you have been waiting for since the first bite scene), is going to dribble out in bits and pieces (even shorter than the rest of this fic's chapters) but I did promise daily updates, I'm simply not in a smutty headspace today, and if I try to force it out, or force it to work, I'll completely ruin the scene. I'm hoping tomorrow will be better. I will not skimp on the scene, so even if it takes place across this chapter and the next, or over the next 4 to 5 chapters, you'll have the scene in its entirety before the characters move onto anything else.

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Now he had to ask— _had_ to—for both their sakes before this went any further than either might be prepared to handle. Only one day had ticked by . . . had so much really changed between them in so short a time that what seemed about to happen wouldn't become a regret?

One of his brows arched upward. "Do you really know what you're asking, Miss Granger?"

Oh, she _knew_ , just as she knew the reason behind his hesitation. But who were they kidding? This day had felt more like a week, and not simply due to how much had happened, but equally on account of their deliberate avoidance of this tension between them.

And . . . well, the only thing to be done for tension was to relieve it, wasn't it?

Yet the words stuck in her throat. Her cheeks flared as she found herself speechless under his steely eyes.

She didn't nod, she didn't speak. Instead, she chose an impossible to misinterpret response. Unknotting the belt on her dressing gown, she pulled back the material to let it fall from her shoulders, all while holding his gaze steadily.

Lucius' head tilted as he reached out, running one finger beneath the lacy strap of her nightdress, a nearly thoughtful expression on his face. He leaned close, only to duck his head, drawing his mouth along her throat just below her ear.

Hermione's eyes drifted closed, her body clenching sweetly all on its own at the sensation of his teeth dragging, of his breath whispering warm against her skin. She nearly couldn't believe she was being so forward as she gathered the length of her impossibly long nightdress in her fingers and started inching it up, bearing her legs little by little until the hem was pooled around her thighs.

He pulled back just enough to see what she'd done. There was a sense of warmth coursing through him as she reached for his free hand and brought it back to rest on her lap.

Lucius watched her face as he followed her guidance. The tips of his fingers dipped between her legs and traced upward, the movement delicate and slow. In response, she shifted where she sat, parting her thighs.

He met her in a gentle, testing stroke at first, gauging her response, giving her a chance, still, to stop this before it went any further. But she only held his gaze, her face flushed, her breathing shallow, shaky. In his periphery, he could see the points of her nipples tightened beneath the silk of her nightdress.

When it seemed he was uncertain whether or not to continue, she slipped her hand around his wrist and tugged, increasing the pressure of his hand against her. Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth fell open at the slightly rougher touch.

"Please," she whispered.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being so very kind and understanding about this scene potentially taking a while and these next few chapters being so very wee. I really appreciate it so much. You're making this little quarantine project so worthwhile with your enthusiasm and support :)

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

That one little word she spoke in that breathy tone seemed to trail, light and tingling, across his skin as surely as if she'd reached out and scraped her nails over him. He couldn't help himself from giving in to her urging.

A pent up sigh rumbled out of her at the feel of his fingers tugging aside the elastic of her knickers. His eyes held hers as he parted her gently, searching. The gasp that escaped her as his fingertips stroked over the slick little bundle of nerves caused his lips to curve in a decidedly wicked half grin.

Hermione found herself unable to move. That was fine, she didn't really want to move just now, she only wanted to sit here like this as he worked the sensitive flesh.

"You never did say," he begun, his voice pitched low, gravelly.

"Say what?" she asked, feeling a little dazed as she lowered her head, watching as his other hand traced upward over her side though the silk to cup her breast.

He waited for her attention to return to his face before he answered, the edge of his thumb circling her hardened nipple teasingly. "What does it feel like for _you_ when you feed from me?


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

She pressed herself closer to his hands, finally managing to move. Reaching toward him, she slipped loose the knot of his dressing gown's belt.

"I'm afraid I've an unfair advantage over you in that regard, Mr. Malfoy." The words had escaped in a husky whisper, and she wondered if her voice was having the same effect on him as his was on her, because his breathing shallowed and his lips parted every so slightly as he held her gaze.

Hermione pulled the belt free and let the folds of silk fall open. Bare skin . . . . She nearly smirked, focusing on the sensation of his fingers stroking and teasing. No wonder he'd had that thing so tightly belted, he was clad only in a pair of black pyjama bottoms underneath. And, as it turned out—though perhaps she should've guessed from how close they'd been so many times since last night—Lucius Malfoy was _fit_.

"How so, Miss Granger?" he asked, strangely liking the use of formality during such an intimate moment. He at last pulled his gaze from hers to look down, to watch as she reached out again, trailing her cool fingertips down his chest and over his abdomen.

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she, too, shifted her focus to the movement of her hands over him. Her breath caught in her throat a moment and she shivered as she moved against his fingers.

Swallowing hard, she traced over the hardened length of him through the silk of his nightclothes. "Unlike you, I _can_ explain how it feels with words. Well . . . one word, anyway."

The hand at her breast slid down along her side and then around her. Cupping her arse with splayed fingers, he dragged her closer, still. "What might that word be, then?"

Now she did smirk. She slipped her hand into his nightclothes and circled his cock with her fingers. Oh, the warmth of him against her chilled skin was unexpectedly lovely.

"Relief," she said, once more speaking in that throaty whisper.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, we're going to have to take a minor break from the scene, because I've had a really rough day and as much as I've not been in a smutty state of mind recently, I'm in a foul mood now that's making it even tougher to commit to an intimate scene.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

He didn't know why he'd bothered to return here. Well, no, he knew, he _understood_ , but he very much did not want to be here. Did not want to acknowledge his mistake.

Frowning, he cast a glance back over his shoulder. The night-darkened street behind him, bright and detailed as when daylit to his eyes, was empty . . . still.

Was his own bloody fault he was so jumpy. Every little sound had him ready to lash out—where he still human, the reaction would've been quite different, starting and running in the opposite direction, perhaps—every shadow from the corner of his eye made him want to recoil, back track, find a good hiding spot from which to tell if it was prey or maybe a more fearsome predator than himself about to cross his path.

Giving himself a sobering shake, he squared his shoulders and started walking again.

He didn't pause as he reached the old gates, vaulting himself over their impressive height, rather than bothering with the lock. Last night had been pure luck that he'd been here before that crotchety human groundskeeper had remembered to secure the entrance. Not that a lock could very well stop magical folk if they were truly of a mind to trespass. Or vampires.

His gaze darted about his surroundings as he moved, taking in every shadowed crevice, every ancient tree felled across half-as-ancient graves during a storm. He had only briefly registered that this place actually had a lot of good hiding places, but now he realized how true that was. Shoulders hunching against the wind—with his lack of body temperature, the prickling against his skin didn't sting with cold, but it _was_ annoying—he moved along the path toward the older part of the graveyard.

He didn't know why he was back here. Contrary to what most people believed, he hated these places, they creeped him out to the pit of his stomach. But he _had_ to check.

He honestly hadn't intended to kill her, but then . . . . He'd never really tried to leave one alive before. But he'd liked her attitude—she seemed quite like someone who could make the next few centuries interesting—he'd not realized how hard making one of his own could be, how risky.

How easy to _completely_ cock up.

But then that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't have any idea. He'd dumped her out of panic when her heart had stopped, the old, unused pauper's grave another bit of sheer, random luck. But what if that was supposed to happen?

What if she was trapped under all that earth? Alive as he was, alone and confused?

No, no. He had to confirm she was well and truly dead.

He shook his head firmly and rushed—convinced there were no prying eyes to witness the blur of motion—to the graveside. He stopped just short of the edge. The sight had him sucking a gasp into his useless lungs.

There was a gaping hole . . . . And there was certainly no dead witch where he'd left here, nothing but splintered wood and what looked like an explosion of dirt. Obviously that crotchety groundskeeper saved himself from cardiac arrest by not fully completing his nightly rounds.

His canines elongated with the responding burst of anger and confusion. And fear, yes, a little fear. She was out there somewhere, and she knew who he was.

With another glance around, he began picking through the mess scattered around the other side of the grave in search of clues as to where she might've gone.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

There was some strange appeal in the coolness of her skin against his. He no longer cared—or perhaps he simply couldn't bring himself to care in the moment—if this was some warped sickness in his own blood that allowed him to enjoy this, or if there was something in the slight shock that would entice, regardless.

She was rocking beneath his ministrations, her unnecessary breaths falling from her lips harsh and shallow. Her eyelids had drifted closed and her fingers slid over him in a rhythm to match his motions, her touch somehow like silk.

The fingers of her free hand trailed up his abdomen to his chest. Pressing her palm to his sternum, she pushed him to lie back on the chaise.

Hermione opened her eyes slow, just enough to see what she was doing as she pulled him free of his nightclothes. She shifted a bit, tugging her hem out of her way and climbing over him.

He aided her, withdrawing his fingers to tug the elastic of her knickers off to one side. "Miss Granger," he said in that low, gravelly tone. "Are you certain?"

One corner of her mouth plucked upward in a wicked half-grin. "Absolutely."

He noticed as she spoke, the points of her teeth had extended, glimmering in the light, and her eyes were flooded crimson. His pulse kicked up just as she lowered herself against him. Lucius' head fell back and a groan choked out of him at his entry.

He could hear the ecstatic sound that tore from her throat as she settled atop him and stilled, shivering a moment. Sooner than he could wonder if she knew that she looked like some savage predator right now, she braced her palms against his chest and started rocking over him.

His fingers grasped her hips, guiding her movements as the sensation of her body gripping tight and warm around him drove any further thoughts from his head.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty**

Hermione shuddered in his hold. She became rather quickly aware that it had been far too long for both of them given how fast her body was tensing as she rocked over him. Given the pained expression pinching his features from holding back.

All right, she decided, pressing herself harder against him, this wasn't going to be the only time they shagged. No, no . . . there had to be more, this just now was a quick fix, something to staunch their suffering, ease the ache.

It never registered on her that her vision had gone red. She never felt the graze of her elongated teeth against her lower lip.

She felt him shiver beneath her, his dignified features pinched in an agonized sort of bliss. Her head fell forward, her muscles going taut over him

Lucius' body locked in a final hard thrust, the sensation of her clenching around him as she came pushing him over the edge, as well. Neither had the faintest clue, but he resolved the same as she had moments ago—while he spent himself, he knew this would not be the only time they found themselves like this.

As their orgasms ebbed, she drooped forward, all but collapsing against him. He caught her, a rough, shallow chuckle rumbling in the back of his throat.

Her ear to his chest, she could hear his heartbeat, rapid now, but slowly by increments. She could feel his breathing, fast and shallow, but evening out the longer they laid there motionless.

"Well," she said after a time, "that was fun."

He laughed again.

"Oh, my God!" Her voice was troubled as she sat up, covering her mouth with her hands.

Lucius' brows pinched upward. "What is it?"

"Everything's red! And my teeth!" She met his gaze, her crimson eyes frantic. "How long have a been like this?"

He winced. "For a bit, actually."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Her demand made him laugh. "My apologies, Miss Granger. I'm rather certain neither one of us wanted to stop in the middle."

Hermione rolled her eyes heavenward in consideration. "Okay, you've a point, there. But still!"

"We both know what that means by now, Miss Granger." Reaching up, he slipped a finger between her lips, nicking a finger against one of her teeth. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, enticing her so deliberately, he only knew he wanted to.

He traced the pinprick of blood against her tongue as he said in a soothing voice, "It means you're hungry."


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all, again, for how wonderfully understanding you've all been about the last few chapters. I know some of you think I made an unnecessary fuss and didn't need to apologize, but . . . here's the thing, early on in my fanfic writing, I was heavy into the Sesskag ship of the Inuyasha fandom, and I won oodles of awards between end- 2010 & mid-2012 on the SessKag site, Dokuga. com, for what? Lemon scenes & lemon fics (well, also for AU's and Dark Fics, but that's beside the point), so well written erotica scenes have always been a point of pride for me, if I mean to write one and I'm in a state where that's not going to be possible, leading to a delay or a fade-to-black, instead, you're going to have me apologizing for it.

**Chapter Forty-One**

Hermione nearly lost herself all over again—in the taste of his blood, in the warmth of his skin against hers. But then she heard the sound. The strange, foreign animal noise.

The one coming from her own throat.

Letting his finger slip from between her lips, she gave herself a shake. Opening her eyes, she met his gaze. Lucius Malfoy was watching her with a serene expression that was both unsettling in how she had never expected that he, of all people, could appear so at peace, and yet at the same time so oddly fitting on his regal features.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his customary drawl more languid than usual.

Looking rather troubled, she touched her fingertips to the base of her throat. "That sound I made . . . ."

He nodded, surprised she was unaware of it. "You make that sound when you're feeding, I've noticed."

The vampire-witch scowled at him . . . not very effective of an expression at the moment, given that she was still straddling him and had that ever-so-fetching 'just shagged' look about her. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I honestly thought you knew."

She groaned, rolling her eyes as she slid off him. Pulling her legs up against her chest, she wrapped her arms around her knees.

Taking a moment to ease his spent length back into his nightclothes, Lucius pulled himself to sit up, as well. "I suppose you're thinking, 'just when I believed the oddest part of my night was sleeping with Lucius Malfoy?'"

Hermione gave him a sidelong glance, unprepared for this notably more relaxed version of the man she'd known so long, and once even feared. Well, she supposed she hadn't been wrong, it really had been a while for him, hadn't it?

She couldn't help but laugh. "I was thinking 'how much more don't I know about myself, now?' Actually." She drew air into her lungs for the sole purpose of letting out a sigh. "To be fair, what just happened is the _not_ the oddest part of the night. I mean, the oubliette, the left-behind skeletons, the disappointments room . . . . God, of course it was for Patricia as an adult! Her father wanted everyone to forget she existed after he found out about her and his prisoners."

Lucius' expression became thoughtful as he considered the very obvious thing she'd just pointed out. He wasn't sure either of them had thought anything otherwise, but the confirmation felt necessary, somehow. "He put her there, in that room, lashed her to the bedposts . . . . Dear Lord, Miss Granger. I think he made her listen to him torturing them."

"This story just gets more awful the longer we think on it."

He nodded, his gaze far off now as he asked, "What if we're wrong about something?"

Shifting where she sat to face him directly, she said, "Wrong about what?"

"Well, her father wrote that he was trying to starve them . . . ." His fingers stroked his chin in a pensive gesture. "What if she let them feed from her so often not because she was addicted to the bite, but because she pitied them?"

Hermione knew what he was asking, knew exactly what he was getting at, but his words made her mind flash back to just earlier that very morning on the floor of his bedroom, the way he'd so grudgingly offered his blood that second time after she'd bawled. The unhappy look in his eyes as he'd pulled her close and told her to use the same bite.

Knowing what he was getting at, she couldn't stop the words he'd used from feeling like a punch in the gut. "Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, her throat feeling tight. "Do you _pity_ me?"


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter Forty-Two**

Lucius shook his head, uncertain how she was comparing their present situation to the historic tragedy of Patricia and those poor sods who lost their lives—or, perhaps, unlives? Oh, he had no idea how to actually classify vampiric existence and _this_ was certainly not the time to ponder it—in the oubliette. Moreover, for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he felt wounded by the question.

No, that wasn't precisely correct, either. He felt wounded by the tone of her voice as she'd asked that question. Wounded by how the delicate skin beneath those big, red-brown tightened and her lips pursed outward to form a miserable little pout she probably didn't even realize she was making as her words hung in the air between them.

He did not like _that_ realization very much at all.

He didn't know if she was looking for him to supply evidence of whatever his answer might be, or some complicated response, but he could only offer the first thing that came to mind. Simple, to the point.

"No."

Hermione felt the set of her shoulders—which she'd not noticed had bunched up with tension as she'd waited for his answer—ease. She felt the breath she'd been holding—also without her notice—escape her lungs in a slow, almost warm rush.

"Okay," she said, nodding. Just as simple, just as to the point. Her eyes lowered as she tried to think through her own reaction to his answer.

She didn't like that she'd actually been hurt by the sense of him helping her out of pity. She didn't like that she actually cared about his opinion of her, or of her circumstances. But then, she was the victim of some monster's fool act, forced to rely on her former enemy to survive . . . . Perhaps she should be pitied.

That consideration was deflating, yet perhaps not more deflating than the notion that in all that had happened, wasn't he a victim, too? After all, feeling obligated to house—and _feed_ —a freshly-turned vampire couldn't exactly be his notion of a controllable situation.

Maybe they should both be pitied.

Somehow that made her useless heart sink. Meeting his gaze, she held it for a while in silence, trying to determine just what it was she was feeling—trying to weigh, in an unbiased fashion, how he might be feeling.

That alone, the idea that she was taking his emotions into account alongside her own, was uncomfortable. She decided she didn't want to simply sit here, anymore. They had research to do.

She shot up from the chaise, to his evident surprise, and snatched one of the scrolls they'd had yet to open. Untying it, she pretended she didn't feel his curious gaze trained on her as she dropped the string carefully, in a neat little coil, upon the table. She unfurled scroll, refusing to—

Lucius nearly jumped out of his skin at the suddenness of the sound when she gasped, dropping the parchment as though the document had been set ablaze in her hands.

Blinking in confusion, he glanced from the vampire-witch, down to where the offending scroll had fluttered to the floor, and back. "What on earth is wrong, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed hard, visibly collecting herself before she folded one arm around herself. Her free hand pressing lightly to the base of her throat, she nodded toward the scroll. "I can't . . ." she started, only to shake her head, her lips pursed a moment before she tried again. "Perhaps you should look for yourself."

Observing her warily, the wizard leaned forward, taking advantage of his long limbs to reach for the scroll from where he sat. Having no idea what he might see, he braced himself as he lifted the parchment from the floor to examine it with his own eyes.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty-Three**

He'd seen many terrible things over the course of his life, yet he still felt that even braced he was unprepared for what was on the scroll. Of course, he did not share Miss Granger's melodramatic reaction, though he was certain he might've come close, had he the glaringly obvious reason for being so affected by the image he now held open between his hands that she did.

Flicking his gaze from the gruesome image to the vampire-witch's face, he noticed she wasn't looking at him. She wasn't waiting for his reaction so she might gauge it. She was eyeing the back of the open scroll warily, as though it might leap from his hands and attack her at any moment.

It was horrible to behold, he'd admit. He felt unclean simply touching the scroll.

Vividly detailed, the sketch might otherwise be mistaken for an artist's breathtakingly real depiction of an autopsy, mid-procedure. Yet, there were things immediately evident in the image that made it impossible to deny how truly terrible it was and why.

The 'patient's' eyes were open, glaring at the artist so they seemed to be looking right out of the scroll, the face twisted in agony. And they were still hanging from those awful chains bolted into the wall.

Vivisection. His mysterious ancestor was performing internal examinations of awake, coherent, _fully-feeling_ creatures.

Swallowing hard against the sensation of bile rising in the back of his throat, he let the scroll furl shut between his hands and set it aside. It took him a few breaths before he could lift his attention to her face.

Appearing quiet like a statue—she wasn't breathing, wasn't blinking, hadn't so much as twitched her little finger the entire time he examined the grotesquery on that scroll—she stared, still, at the place the parchment had been when he'd held it open. The rigidity of her form unsettled him a little.

He didn't know quite what to say, he wasn't even certain how he felt. As he opened his mouth, however, she came back to life, cutting him off with a question that shed yet more troubling light on the matter.

"Who's drew it?"

"What?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Look . . . ." In a sudden flurry of motion, she returned to sit beside him and picked up the terrible image. Unfurling it, she drew in a deep, steadying breath before letting her gaze land on the too-real sketch. She indicated the victim's glaring eyes. "They're looking out from the image, surely you must've noticed."

Lucius only nodded in reply—he _had_ noticed that, actually.

"That sort of perspective is more likely from a witness sketching during the process, not the torturer—" Hermione moved her hand to the person in the image performing the vivisection—"doing a rendering after the fact."

"Whoever that man was, he wasn't working alone."

Lucius felt his stomach twist. The prospect of one of his ancestors engaging in this vile activity was horrible on its own, but now having to consider the man'd had an accomplice?

He shook his head, taking the vile document from Miss Granger's hands and placing it aside once again. "We need more information; we can't keep guessing at things," he said, his voice toneless.

She reached for another scroll from the table, uttering a little sound of surprise when he snatched it from her hands. "Mr. Malfoy, what are you—?"

Speaking as he untied the string and set it on the table, a sloppy effort next to the neat little loop of her string from earlier, he said, "Miss Granger, after the shock the last scroll gave you upon first sight, I think perhaps it's better _I_ open the remainders, don't you?"

Hermione nodded and folded her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for him to unfurl the scroll and preview its contents. Waiting patiently, and ignoring that his show of concern for her reaction set off a giddy fluttering in her stomach and sent a bloom of warmth though her chest.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

Hermione hadn't realized she was tensed. She knew Mr. Malfoy wouldn't show it to her without warning if it bore even the slightest resemblance to the last one, but she couldn't help being wary.

Mr. Malfoy also looked as though he was preparing himself to find another ghastly image. He inched the ends of the scroll open slowly.

Just as it unrolled by increments, so too did the tightness around his grey eyes soften and the tense set of his shoulders ease. He glanced at her, noticing her reaction, her own stiffened posture loosening beside him as she stared at the blank side of the parchment.

Strange. Lucius couldn't be sure if she was reacting to some visible change in him, or if she'd somehow sensed his response and relaxed along _with_ him.

"It's another series of accounts," he said.

"Like the last one?" Hermione sighed. "I mean _before_ the . . . hideous one."

"The handwriting's different, so perhaps—"

"The artist, do you think?"

The wizard uttered a sigh of his own. "We don't _know_ Patricia's father had only one accomplice. In fact, I'm not sure why we assumed he was working alone in the first place."

She nodded and sank into the cushioned back of the chaise. He was correct, of course—they'd had no reason to think that foul man acted alone, and yet they'd both thought it. Maybe it was simply less terrible to imagine there'd been just one person involved in these horrors.

"You're right, read on."

"It's undated," he noted. " _We saw the creature again tonight. From the churchyard it crept, slinking out in search of prey. It was gone sooner than we could move. Astor does not believe the creature crawls out of his grave, as the legend tells. Instead, my brave husband—"_

"Was this written by Patricia's mother, then?" Hermione interrupted entirely without meaning to, her tone full of horror. Noticing he was observing her over the top of the scroll with pursed lips, she tacked on a sheepish, "Sorry."

Lucius frowned. "It's not a bad guess, if indeed Astor _was_ the one who wrote those first accounts. We don't have enough evidence to decide who's who, or how many might've been involved."

"All too true," she conceded. "Continue, please."

" _Instead, my brave husband believes that the fiend may perhaps dwell . . . ."_

Hermione arched a brow at the way his voice trailed off, but she remained silent.

He didn't like what this was going to lead to as he went on. " _Beneath the churchyard. He is concocting some fool plan to search the mausoleums for an entrance. Theorizing that this creature is not alone—that there may be more down there, even that perhaps we have seen more that one and simply not been able to tell them apart from one another—seems rather a source of greater conviction for him than it does a deterrent._

" _He is resolved, now, to find where these monsters rest. For all his bravery, his magic may not save him, and I pray he does not happen upon that which he seeks."_

"D'you recognize the name Astor?" she asked almost immediately after Lucius' last word.

He set aside the scroll and stood, going to one of the shelves. Pulling free a thick leather tome, he eased it open to leaf through. "Astor Abraxas Malfoy," he read when his fingers came to a stop, "mid 1600s to early 1700s. Wife, Millandra of House Selwyn, son Octavius . . . no Patricia."

He sounded sad, it made Hermione uncomfortable. She wanted to go to him and offer some comforting gesture, so she forced herself to remain where she was.

"Never thought I'd be so unhappy to be right." A mirthless smile curved his lips.

Her brows pinched together in question.

"I hoped I simply didn't recall her because I had no reason to remember. If only that, but no. It was because her father did keep her from becoming a 'blemish on our House.'" Lucius closed the book, his gaze distant, unfocused. "He _erased_ her from history."


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty-Five**

The rest of the scrolls were as horrid as the first. Accounts of how they'd lured and captured their prey—there was no mistaking that the vampires in the oubliette had been deliberately hunted, making their captors unquestionably the predators in this scenario—accounts of what sort of 'experiments' had been performed.

Hermione couldn't make it through these particular documents; now that she was no different than the victims, she felt fear and revulsion nearly visceral in their potency. Lucius, for his part, made no attempt to fill her in on their contents, either. Her discomfort was too obvious to him, but he refused to acknowledge that he made the decision for her benefit. No, these were _his_ ancestors committing these atrocities, it was perfectly justifiable that he wouldn't want to delve deeper than strictly necessary to get a handle on what'd happened all those centuries ago.

There were no other names mentioned, no third style of penmanship ever surfaced. Astor and Millandra had acted alone. They'd needed time to process the notion of the couple commissioning a room built around the oubliette's hatch . . . . No. Left at that, it didn't sound so horrible.

They'd needed time to process that Astor and Millandra Malfoy had built a room for the sole purpose of tormenting their 'wayward and troubled' daughter with the cries of the creatures she'd come to care for. That the room had also allowed them to hide her from the world was the bonus, not the other way around.

The pair hadn't left the library the entire night. By the time they'd given the final scroll a cursory look, Hermione was seated on the floor before the chaise, and Lucius half-reclined on its cushioned seat. They were both starting to droop, even as they pretended they weren't tired, while they tossed around what to do next.

That was when Lucius Malfoy uttered what Hermione Granger assumed might well be the stupidest collection of words the wizard had ever let leave his lips in his entire life.

Her spine stiffening, she turned slowly, pinning him with an incredulous glare. "I'm sorry, I must've misheard you."

"You heard me correctly, or you wouldn't be looking at me as though I'd just murdered your familiar."

"Then you're mad. You're not going!"

Lucius sighed, ignoring her blatant worry for him just as he was ignoring that the notion of her worrying for him warmed him. "It's best I go out. I can listen around Wizarding London—learn if anyone's noticed you're missing, or perhaps been asking about you."

Her shoulders slumped. "Okay, that isn't a bad idea, but—"

"If the graveyard where I found you is the same as the one where Astor and Millandra caught their victims, it might offer a clue about your attacker."

"Or lead you directly to them!"

"I'm hardly defenseless, Miss Granger. And I've the advantage of knowing what I might be walking into."

Hermione didn't like the sound of this at all. "Then, I'm going with you."

That pulled him from his half-reclined position. "You can't leave the house."

She pouted angrily. "Well, okay, how about you go and find out whatever you can in Diagon Alley and then, later, we go together to the graveyard?"

"Miss Granger—"

"I'll cover up so no one'll recognize me! Look, if something goes wrong and you . . . ." She flinched, but powered on, features schooled, "get hurt or something, how'll I know? When you just never come back to _your_ house? What'm I to do, then?"

He frowned; she wasn't wrong. "All right, we'll do it your way. But now it's nearly sunrise." He stood and offered her his hand. "We should get some rest."

Not liking how certain she was that he was only placating her, but too sleepy now to argue any further, she slipped her hand into his, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He led her through the house back to the bedroom they apparently now shared.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-Six**

This time, neither of them was quite certain how it'd started.

Hermione knew they'd climbed into bed and, like yesterday morning, had deliberately occupied the far-opposite sides of the bed. She knew they'd at some point awakened—neither of them was really aware of who awoke first, or even why—and she had, once again, gravitated toward him.

She knew he'd turned toward her in his sleep, her back to his chest. That he'd curled an arm around her waist, holding her to him.

She _suspected_ they had both half-awakened before now, that they'd each become aware of their changed position, and simply fallen back to sleep

Lucius knew that at some point he'd woken up again, not quite fully alert, but enough to become aware that he was embarrassingly hard. He knew from the way she'd shifted in his hold just then—shifted and froze—that she, too was awake.

He knew she was perfectly aware of the state he was in. That she'd stilled and was listening to his breath, he thought. determining whether he was awake, too.

He _suspected_ that she was contemplating whether or not it was a situation they should address, or if she should pretend to be asleep and wait for him to wake.

And then—all at once, it seemed—there was the frenzied pulling of nightclothes out of their way. There was Miss Granger lifting her leg back to rest it over his hips as he guided himself to enter her, swift and hard.

She pushed back against him, steadying herself for his movements. He reached between her thighs, pinning the leg that rested over him in place as his fingers slid against her to work her clit in time with his motions.

Hermione shuddered in his embrace, burying her face against the pillow as she let out a loud, fairly obnoxious string of obscenities.

Uttering a harsh, breathy chuckle, he murmured in a gravelly pitch, "Miss Granger, I had no idea!"

She answered with an airless laugh of her own, though she wasn't certain how she could string coherent thoughts together, let alone speak, as he rubbed against her faster, as he quickened his thrusts, sending sweet, warm little shocks rippling through her. "I'm a . . . well-versed woman," she offered, "having a more . . . colorful vocabulary than most should be . . . no surprise, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius nuzzled her hair away from her throat, finding a thrilling irony in it as he grazed his teeth along her skin. The way she gripped her hands over his arm as her body started tightening against his, he wondered distantly if vampires might enjoy the feel of teeth, themselves.

He bit down and she cried out, every inch of her tensed, her body tight clenching around his strokes as the orgasm crashed over her. He lapped and suckled at the skin trapped between his teeth, driving into her harder until she was spent, whimpering moans working their way out of her throat.

Hermione found him moving her, and she went with the guidance gladly. She was suddenly braced on her knees and elbows as his hand clamped her hips. She heard yet another string of choice expletives fall from her own lips as he sank into and withdrew fast and hard, again and again.

The movement ferocious, he pulled her against him one final time and stilled, fine tremors wracking him as he came.

She moved beneath his hands then, pressing herself to him and easing away, over and over, until he was finished.

For several of his heartbeats, they remained motionless, their bodies sealed tight together until the last of the delicious shivers faded entirely and his breathing evened out.

Eventually they extracted themselves from one another, their actions silent.

Lucius stood. "I'm going to go wash up. You should, too."

The words fell from her lips sooner than she could stop them, "Or we could wash up together."

He met her gaze over his shoulder and then reached back. Slipping his hand around her wrist, he pulled her off the bed to once more follow him.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

It was still daylight out by the time they finished washing up. Well, to be fair, that wasn't how they'd spent the _entirety_ of their time in the shower, but it was the final activity they'd participated. Miss Granger had been quite exhausted due to this new, decidedly rigorous, aspect to their dynamic and her nearly as new nocturnal body clock. Lucius was not surprised to find himself carrying her back to bed.

Well, it was hardly as though he'd brought his wand with him to the bathroom, now was it?

He considered it strangely touching that she levied a sleepy-voiced threat after he'd pulled the covers up over her. She swore—without opening her eyes or doing any other thing that might indicate she was even the slightest bit awake—that if he did not come back here to fetch her before going to the graveyard, she'd make him regret it.

Snickering, he shook his head as he finished dressing. Upon leaving the house, he secured the property with more wards than he typically used when it was just him.

Hmm . . . perhaps he was feeling a tad protective of her. Frowning thoughtfully, he turned away from the manor and started down the long walk toward the boundary of the grounds.

Disapparating, he reappeared inside the designated safe entry space of the Leaky Cauldron. Slightly inconvenient and cramped if another witch or wizard tried to enter the establishment via Apparition at the same time, but it prevented anyone from accidentally popping up in one of the guest suites or the bathroom, or any place equally embarrassing and inappropriate. Leaving via magical travel, however, was not as strictly regulated. That was where the charm which prevented patrons from leaving before they'd paid kicked in.

Rather clever of Old Tom, that.

It was late enough in the afternoon that one could openly drink liquor without any odd looks. Settling on a corner stool at the bar, he ordered a simple brandy—top shelf, of course—and settled in to listen to the other patrons.

Old Tom didn't bother speaking to Lucius Malfoy, he simply supplied the drink and went back to fill other orders. Lucius supposed there was a strange power in being something of a social pariah. One could sit anywhere and people would talk and socialize as though you were invisible.

The last thing he'd expected was to hear a female voice calling his name. "Mr. Malfoy?"

One brow arched high, he turned to see his soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

"Miss Greengrass," he answered, with a polite, tight-lipped smile. "What might bring you through here this time of day?"

"Just on my way through to Diagon Alley to do a bit of shopping." She looked troubled, despite returning his pleasant-if-strained expression.

"Something the matter?"

The young lady shrugged, frowning. "No, but you should know Draco was expecting to speak with you."

Lucius finished off his drink and put a few galleons on the bar—whatever other negative things Old Tom or the other patrons might say about him when he walked away, they would not be able to say he was cheap. "Really?" Not that this information displeased him, he missed his son a great deal, but it was simply unexpected. "Why?"

Astoria's smiled widened and became more genuine, color dotting her cheeks as she said, "Well, we finally set a date. I think he wanted you to be the first to know."

Oh, hell, now his heart was warming. "That's wonderful news. Um, perhaps you could tell him that I'd be happy to meet with him—"

"That's what I meant to say, though!" She appeared momentarily abashed at interrupting him, but shook her head and hurried on. "He went to the manor hoping to speak with you a few minutes ago."

His grey eyes shooting wide, Lucius sputtered, "He—he went . . . . Just now?" Dear Lord, Draco would know how to undo the wards he'd placed-after all, Lucius was the one who'd taught him. And he'd be suspicious of how tightly guarded his father had left the place.

"Apologies for the rude departure," his words rushed together, seeming all the more abrupt for how he followed his statement with Disapparration.

Lord, he hoped he arrived at the manor before his son did.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

Hermione's eyes flew open as she was overcome with a sudden and overpowering sense that someone—someone distinctly _not_ Lucius Malfoy—lurked somewhere nearby. Of course, that hardly narrowed it down, as with her newly sharpened senses, 'somewhere nearby' could probably mean 'anywhere within a mile of the manor.' Certainly, she was exaggerating, but her momentary whimsy wasn't without reason; it was to distract herself from wondering why she felt a sense of invasion at someone nearing the house.

She didn't want to waste her time puzzling over whether this was yet another bizarre vampire thing she'd have to get used to. She couldn't consider that she was feeling comfortable here. That part of her might be considering Lucius Malfoy's home _hers_ —after two bloody days? Madness!—and this was some new instinct based in guarding her territory.

She crept out of bed—moving far more silently than she'd have been capable of only a few days ago. She had no idea who this might be. Possibly Draco? Okay, this was his father's house, that would make sense. Worse, could it be Narcissa, come to finally collect the things she'd left behind? That notion seemed silly after so much time, but coincidences like that did seem to show the universe had a sense of humor, and a cruel one at that.

Dread pooled in her belly. What if the intruder wasn't even someone who could claim a right to be here?

What if her so-called maker had tracked her here? What if Mr. Malfoy had lied and gone to the graveyard without her and now he was in danger—or worse—and his presence, alone, had led the mysterious vampire here?

The feel of being in danger had a rather opposite affect on her than one might expect. Rather than fear, instead she felt a cold sort of calm settle over her, allowing the dangerous companions of logic and self-preservation—a _fierce_ drive with which anything she'd felt before paled in comparison—to reign uninhibited.

She smoothed out the covers, quite purposeful in her efforts to make the bed look unslept in before she slunk into the shadows of Malfoy Manor.

* * *

Draco frowned as he dispelled the last of his father's wards on the manor grounds. He'd worried before now that too much time alone might be making the man paranoid, seeing evidence that that might actually be true brought a heavy sense of guilt crashing down on his shoulders.

He had no real excuse for not visiting more often.

Worse, he couldn't be sure that this was any measure that Lucius Malfoy _wasn't_ home. His father could be in there in the same sorry state of self-imposed exile he'd put himself into the day Mother had left.

And just when Draco's thought he'd gotten over that—when he and Astoria had come by for a visit during the Christmas holidays a handful of months back, Father had seemed his old, mildly surly, self.

Shaking his head, he hurried up the steps and into the house through its familiar double doors.

* * *

They were on the ground floor, she could tell. Whoever they were, she could follow their scent as they ducked in and out of rooms. They were headed toward the back of the house, she thought—toward the kitchen.

She and Lucius hadn't reclosed the door that led to the forgotten servant's quarters. Whoever the intruder was, they were about to stumble upon that damned oubliette!

Hermione started down the staircase, but just as fast, it seemed, the person changed their mind. They had turned and were coming directly toward her.

She shot back up the staircase on deathly quiet footfalls. Once more, she slipped into the darkened nooks of the second-floor corridor and waited. The person—clad in black robes, so no help there, since from her current angle she could not see any further defining characteristics—sped past her in the direction of the master bedroom.

She took after them, rounding the same corner they had in a blink.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

As she rounded the bend in the corridor, she glimpsed a familiar head of slicked-back silver blond hair further along in the shadowed corridor that made her pause. He stood before the wall she'd torn open to get out of the disappointments room. Bloody hell, she'd forgotten the most direct path from the staircase to Lucius' room took one directly past here.

"What the absolute shit happened here?!"

Despite the familiar hair, Hermione was shocked just enough to recognize the voice—and unaware that he'd not be able to see her as well in the dim light as she could see him— that his name tumbled from her lips sooner than she could stop it.

Draco spun on his heel. Unable to believe his ears, and his questionably adjusted eyes, he asked, "Granger?" Taking a step closer, he did something to help him see a better—a thing anyone might do in the house they'd grown up in without a second thought.

He reached toward the window and pulled open the curtain beside him, letting in some of the early evening's dwindling sunlight.

The daylight distracted her, and she realized in that moment why vampires hid themselves away from it. Not because it drained their energy near instantly, but because of how easily she'd found her attention pulled to strains of light flooding the expanse of floor between them. Even as she observed her own sudden and inexplicable fascination, she couldn't stop from answering the lure of it.

The warmth she'd felt yesterday morning when she'd stood before the window in the guest suite had been so lovely. Like being wrapped in a cozy blanket by a roaring fire after spending hours in the cold.

She understood, even as she stepped toward it in spite of herself, that _this_ was the true danger. They couldn't help themselves if they saw it. They would be pulled to warm themselves under the sun's light, and it would render them powerless. Vulnerable.

She could certainly recognize why her after-a-fashion ancestors would find subterranean life ideal—even if they came across a patch of daylight streaming in from somewhere above, they would collapse someplace safe.

Only distantly did she hear the thudding of footfalls rushing up the stairs. Only distantly did she catch that Draco, so close before her, was babbling confused questions at her. What was she doing here? What had happened to the house? What the bloody hell was this room he distinctly did not remember? Where was his father?

Well, at least she was relatively certain that must be what he was asking since those were the logical questions _to_ ask in this bizarre situation, because she couldn't actually focus on his words.

Instead, she was stuck numbly watching her own hands as they lifted toward that soft, warm light.

"Miss Granger, no!"

Lucius Malfoy's voice, uncharacteristically panicked, broke through her trance. Snatching her hands back, she met Draco's gaze and then whirled on her heel to face his father.

He stood at the bend in the corridor, his grey eyes frantic.

Hermione completely underestimated the sense of ease that would steel over her at his return—dear God, all of these things she was feeling toward him far too fast, far too easily, were becoming a nuisance. She told herself it was only relief at seeing he hadn't, in fact, done something stupid, like gone off to the graveyard without her, not . . . not because he was unharmed, no, no, she would ignore that aspect of it. He was, at present, her—forgiving herself for the possibly atrocious pun—lifeline, it made sense that she'd be pleased he was still in one piece.

She underestimated, however, how soothing that reliefe was and she slumped backward a bit where she stood. A spot of sunlight touched her cheek and she automatically turned, stepping into it.

The warmth was soothing, welcoming as it washed over her cold, fair skin. Her eyes drifted closed as she let out a content sigh.

She hit the floor faster than Lucius could reach her.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, chapter 50! 50 days, can you believe it? 'Cause I sure can't. 0_0
> 
> I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THIS STORY IS GOING! XD

**Chapter Fifty**

He knelt, gathering the unconscious vampire-witch into his arms and pulled her out of the light.

A very confused Draco crossed the floor, a thousand questions fighting for his voice, yet they all died before reaching his lips when he noticed she wasn't breathing.

"Oh my God," he said, panic draining his already fair cheeks. "Is she—?"

"Miss Granger?" Lucius started, cupping a gentle hand around her jaw. "Miss Granger?"

A sleepy sound erupted from her before she managed to open her eyes, that lovely, dangerous pool of light and warmth gone now. Looking up, she met Lucius' gaze. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I don't know what came over me. I think we can't control ourselves when exposed to daylight."

"Like a moth to a flame?" he asked, completely oblivious to the simple fact that they'd each become, well, _oblivious_ to Draco's presence so easily.

She nodded, her confused expression clearing.

Draco was bizarrely aware that aside from the air she needed to speak, she wasn't breathing. He'd expected a gasp when she awoke—trying to catch her breath after going without for a few heartbeats there, but no. Nothing.

Yet, Father was approaching this business about whatever the hell had just happened with Granger and the light of day as though it was expected and merely curious now that she was all right.

Except that she wasn't bloody breathing!

Shaking his head in disbelief, Draco sank down beside them. He ignored her attempt to move away as he pressed his fingers to the side of her throat.

He waited. Until an unnerving amount of seconds for a talking, blinking, r _eacting_ person to not have a pulse passed and he snatched his hand back as though she'd bitten him.

Grey eyes wide, Draco fell back on his bum, staring at her. "You're . . . you're . . . ."

"Dead?" Lucius filled in for him, wincing as he braced for his son to have some sort of fit.

" _Un_ dead, technically," she supplied in a soft tone that suggested she wasn't certain whether or not she was being helpful.

Draco Malfoy's shocked gaze roved from his father, to his former classmate, and back before he started sputtering, all those questions, and a host of new ones, all fighting to get out at once. He couldn't think of which to let out first, so he settled for: _"What?"_

Lucius' eyes narrowed in consideration. "I'll wager there're _many_ things you'd like to ask right now."

Draco replied with an emphatic nod.

"Perhaps some tea?" she offered as Lucius stood while helping her up.

"Always a good start," the elder Malfoy agreed.

Draco watched them warily as he climbed to his feet. He trailed after them uncertainly while they started toward the staircase.

"And for God's sake, Miss Granger, you handle the tea. _I'll_ fetch biscuits. We don't want a repeat of last time you wandered into the pantry."

"I'm quite aware, Mr. Malfoy, but thank you for the reminder."

As they made their way to the ground floor, Draco tried to organize the currently innumerable questions running circles in his head based on priority. Was she a vampire? Was she running around sucking on people's necks for sustenance? Did she have his father under some sort of influence? What was that bizarre room?

Why the bloody hell as she here? When the house had been otherwise empty? In a nightdress and dressing gown as though she'd _slept_ here?

Oh, he had no idea what took priority in this scenario. Worse, those questions multiplied when they reached the kitchen and he spotted the concealed door still open.

Stumbling to it on cautious footfalls, he peered into the long-forgotten servants' quarters before whirling back to face his father and the _undead_ witch. Suddenly the comfortable dynamic he was witnessing between them seemed easier to ignore in favor of much more pressing questions.

Yet, as he watched them—her setting the kettle and Father placing a tray of biscuits on the table, as though this was not their first time in the kitchen together—the first question, one he'd decided easy to ignore only a heartbeat ago, tumbled from his lips.

"Are you two _shagging_?!"


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter Fifty-One**

Hermione could only stare back at the younger Malfoy, blinking several times in rapid succession as she rather apparently struggled to understand the words that had escaped his lips. When neither party—she was ignoring the infuriatingly telling way the question had brought a crashing sound from within the pantry—immediately answered, Draco demanded, "Well?"

Her eyes narrowing lethally, she stepped away from the stove and made a beeline for him. Draco didn't even have time to jump before she was across the floor and standing before him.

Even as she moved—in the space of a heartbeat that it'd taken her to reach Draco where he still stood in the open space of the otherwise-camouflaged sliding door—she processed that just two and a half days ago, she'd have completely understood _this_ being the first thing he needed addressed before he could focus on literally anything else.

After all, were their roles reversed, she was pretty sure she'd find the notion of Draco Malfoy shagging one of her parents _very_ distracting from any larger, looming issues, like, say, the end of the world, perhaps.

But in this moment, her temper seemed linked directly into what she'd become ... . And perhaps just a little in a protectiveness toward Lucius Malfoy that'd flared upon hearing the tone of disparagement with which his son had asked that distinctly personal question.

"Are you bloody joking right now?" Just like upstairs, she could hear Mr. Malfoy's footfalls behind her and closing, but he wasn't in time to stop her from getting in his son's face.

His already pale cheeks draining of what little color they had at her unconscious display of preternatural speed, Draco could only manage, "Wha ...?" in a puff of air.

" _Do you have any idea how ... how_ small _you sound_? _!_ " she bellowed.

She instinctively stepped out of Lucius' reach as he tried to grab her and pull her back a bit. Her fangs were peeking out in her anger, but her brown eyes were still only minimally tinted crimson, the way that was 'normal' for her now. Lucius supposed as long as there was no immediate danger of his, well, fine, his _lover_ , deciding to have his son for dinner, perhaps there was no point in interfering.

"In the last ten minutes, you've glimpsed two rooms hidden for centuries in the house you grew up in, and witnessed me walking and talking without a pulse or the need to breathe beyond using air to speak, yet the first thing you can think to ask is if we're shagging?!"

Draco's widened eyes shot past her to meet his father's. Lucius' features had closed down, his hand clasping his own chin so that his fingers covered his mouth. "I ... ." The younger wizard stammered, wildly confused by, well, everything. "I ... ."

"You cannot imagine what we've been _through_ these last two days," she continued, raging at him.

"No, no," he eeked out in a whisper before forcing a gulp down his throat. "You've a point; I haven't the foggiest idea of what you've been through." She _did_ have a point, the last time they'd crossed paths, she'd been human. Two days did seem a short time to get a handle on this change.

"Well, c'mon then." Her fingers latched in an iron grip around his wrist. "Let's take a little tour of your childhood home, shall we? I'll fill you in!"

Lucius dropped his hand from his face to hold a finger up in the air. "Wait, perhaps we can explain without ... . " But already Miss Granger was dragging Draco through the forgotten servant's quarters toward the door to the oubliette's staircase.

Letting out a sigh, Lucius shook his head while listening to her begin the explanation from the moment she'd awoken in that wooden box. "I mean," he started in a low voice, "we could've just sat him down and explained everything over tea and biscuits, but sure, I suppose this works, too."

Drawing his wand, he cast a light charm and followed after them.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

She'd showed him the fanged skeletons and the hatch, Patricia's room and the tethers on the bedposts, and he stood now in the library, his face ashen and drawn. Hermione'd opened and pressed into his unsuspecting hands one scroll in particular. Yes, it was a harsh move given this particular scroll's contents, but she felt they really needed him to comprehend the depth, the complexity, of what they'd witnessed and experienced over the last forty-eight hours.

He dropped the parchment the moment he laid eyes on it—nearly as fast as she'd forced him to hold it. They all watched it flutter to the floor in a crinkly whisper of sound; the atrocious image stared up at them in macabre silence.

"Do you understand now?" she asked, the trip through the house and getting out the entire explanation—impressing Mr. Malfoy in how she'd relayed every detail with the deliberate exception of any too-intimate moments while sounding as though she hadn't left out or skipped over a single thing—not blunting the edge of her anger at Draco Malfoy for taking the most flippant tack possible with this terrible fate that'd befallen her.

"Knowing the whole story, can you really be _so_ judgmental as for your first concern to be about something as comparatively simple as me shagging your dad, _hmm_?!"

Draco looked from his father to his former classmate-turned-vampire, and back. The way she'd asked, the wording she'd used, confirmed that yes, they were in fact . . . doing the thing Draco dreaded to think of them doing, but she wasn't wrong, as much as he'd like her to be. In light of everything else, even with his personal reasons for prioritizing the matter, it did seem _small._

"Well ... no, I um, I suppose you're right. I shouldn't be ... judgy," he said, finishing the sentence somewhat lamely.

Lucius only watched in silence from the doorway, his brows high on his forehead.

At Draco's concession, Hermione's anger faded. She let out a sigh. "Well, now that that's sorted, let's return to the kitchen so those still able to eat normal food can have that tea and biscuits, yeah?"

She forced a smile at them both—Draco thought it might be to show she was not going to drag out his discomfort any further than was necessary to make him understand, Lucius on the other hand was certain it was to show _him_ her fangs had retracted now that she'd calmed—and nodded. Starting from the room, she slipped through the doorway, past Mr. Malfoy, and started down the corridor.

Draco didn't budge an inch, yet. He turned his attention to Lucius, waiting to see his father's reaction to her mercurial demeanor.

His brows settling after what seemed an abnormally long time, the elder Malfoy shrugged. "That was actually not as bad as I was expecting." Mouth plucking upward at the corners in his familiar, tight-lipped smile—the one that didn't quite convey any emotion at all—he nodded. "I think she might be starting to acclimate to her situation."

Now it was Draco's brows that shot up as he watched his father turn and disappear from the library doorway to start down the corridor after the young woman.

Deciding he didn't want to know what might've happened previously when vampire-Hermione'd gotten angry if sporting fangs, bellowing at the top of her lungs, and dragging a grown man in her wake on trips up and down staircases and through long corridors like rag doll was a mark of her 'acclimating' to her new nature, he forced himself to follow them. He had a lot to process, and a lot of things he wanted to avoid processing.

One thing he definitely didn't want to process was a question about whether the high collar of his father's robes was a coincidence, or if it served a purpose beyond being whatever he'd 'just so happened' to grab out of his wardrobe that day.


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

"Absolutely _not_!"

Draco stopped mid-chew, his eyes darting from Hermione to Lucius and back. Strangely, the whole tea and biscuits thing didn't turn out terrible, though he dreaded to imagine what had happened that led to her sitting half way across the kitchen with her gaze averted from the spectacle of them eating.

They'd brought Draco up to speed with their next plans. He'd mentioned he could, perhaps, go with them to search the graveyard—strength in numbers.

She wasn't thrilled with Lucius going, now they were turning this potentially dangerous venture into a ruddy field trip?!

"It's _his_ decision, Miss Granger," Lucius said, his voice a bit tight.

They both snapped their attention to land on Draco then, expectantly.

The younger Malfoy had finally managed to finish chewing and swallowing the last bit of that biscuit only to find himself once more frozen under the weight of their mutual scrutiny. His tea cup raised to his lips, again he split his focus between them over the porcelain rim.

"Um . . . ." He took a quick sip and set down the cup before answering. "I mean, I don't want my father to go on this . . . completely ludicrous 'exploration' alone, but—"

"Hang on, alone?" Hermione shook her head, her eyes wide. "I'm going, too."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't," he said, his voice strangely reasonable. "My father's right. If the bloke who did this to you is there—"

"If he is and I'm not with you, you'd be in more danger without me. I'm stronger and faster than a bloody werewolf under the full moon, which means he's probably stronger and faster than I am. I can't let you two—"

"Your condition was that I'm not to go about this alone." Lucius said—also sounding infuriatingly reasonable—as he offered a lazy shrug. "If Draco accompanies me, condition met without potentially setting you in front of the _bastard_ who—"

"Can I speak to you privately for a minute, please?"

Sooner than Lucius could answer, Hermione latched a hand around his wrist and tugged him out of the kitchen. They both pretended they didn't feel Draco's gaze following them as they disappeared out the doors.

Once in the dining room, she pivoted on her heel to face him. "What is wrong with you?" She ignored a momentary flash of dizziness.

Lucius' brows pinched upward. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look, given how . . . strained my history with your family, and Draco in particular, is, and how weird this situation has been, I'm grateful you both are willing to help me, but this is too much." She blinked tiredly, shaking her head. "You can't leave me behind and drag him along. He's got a fiancée to go home to!"

"I'm only willing to take him because I know he can handle himself in combat and isn't too proud to retreat when situations go pear-shaped. I'd know, I taught him."

Hermione's head was starting to feel fuzzy, but she continued pushing that away, trying to concentrate. "Still. If something happens to him, how would you tell your future daughter-in-law, hmm?"

"If he wants to accompany me—"

"Us."

"I won't force him, but if he _wants_ to go, I'll not talk him out of it."

Her shoulders drooped and she unconsciously sagged against the wall beside them. "There was something . . . something else."

He stiffened, realizing she looked tired and weak . . . drained. He knew she was about to ask, and he didn't hate the idea. "What?"

"Just now, you called the person who bit me a bastard."

Her words completely derailed him. "And?"

"You just sounded _so_ angry, like maybe you're . . . starting to get emotional about this."

Lucius nodded. He hadn't realized it, but as with her potentially asking for his blood, he didn't hate the idea. "Your point?" was all he said, his voice plain.

Swallowing hard, she smiled weakly. "Glad it's not just me."

She slid sideways against the wall. He swooped down, catching her before she could hit the floor.


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

Her vision flickered in and out of crimson as she found herself in Lucius' arms. She'd exerted too much energy ... . Well, she wasn't even certain she'd been taking enough blood to sustain herself in the first place. This was all so unsure.

Her thoughts were fuzzy and she blinked hard trying to define them. Then she was drifting again.

"Miss Granger, _please_ " he said in an urgent whisper.

She was vaguely aware of his splayed fingers sinking into her hair to cup the back of her head. Aware of him lifting her face. Hermione's senses snapped into focus as her lips brushed the healing wound on his throat. Her mind took longer to catch up.

His limbs tensed around her as she sank her fangs into the broken skin, tearing the wounds anew.

She pretended she didn't like how a tremor shook him and he loosed a sigh as she withdrew her teeth to nurse the blood from the punctures. No, it would be too easy to get lost in this, in the relief and the strength flooding her, in the press of his warm skin beneath her lips.

So alive.

So unlike her.

The thought jarred her, knocked her back from feeding longer.

He felt her stiffen in his embrace. The place where her mouth had been seemed to burn, feeling unnaturally warm in the absence of her cool lips and tongue as she pulled back.

She met his questioning gaze. He held her cradled to him, and she couldn't remember when she'd gripped her hands into his robes, but she clung so tight the fabric bit into her fingertips. "I shouldn't take too much," she said quietly.

Lucius ducked his head closer, trying to better weigh her expression. "There's something else."

Swallowing hard, she shook her head, her vision clear now and her thoughts defined. She didn't want to tell him. True, this was just now going on three days and so many bad things had been uncovered that affected them both, but ... somehow this thing between them was strangely simple.

Except that it wasn't. It was mad and complicated and layered ... and somehow it was none of those things at all, and whatever it was, it was just _so_ fast.

So why, now, looking into his eyes, being held close to him like this, did it feel so perfect?

He frowned at her reticence, at the sorrowful gleam in her eyes. "Miss Granger?"

She couldn't help herself at his soft tone, at the way the delicate skin beneath his eyes crinkled as his gaze searched hers. "What becomes of us after this, Mr. Malfoy?"

"You mean after we find who did this and you decide whether to play dead or go back into the world and continue on as Hermione Granger, night owl?"

She nodded.

The breath of his sigh warmed her lips as he lifted his hand to tuck some of her wild locks behind her ear. "I'm comfortable with crossing that catastrophe laden bridge when we get to it if you are."

Again she nodded. They'd sort of being dealing with things as they came as it was, so she supposed that was the way to go forward. Not tripping over denial every other minute now that things were in the open would certainly make things simpler, too.

She opened her mouth to speak, but sooner than the words would come, a knock sounded from the door to the kitchen.

Draco's voice filtered out into the dining room. "If I step into that room right now, am I going to see something that'll scar me for life?"

Hermione couldn't stop herself from laughing as Lucius grimaced. He fixed the collar of his robes before he climbed to his feet. She adored how he stood with her still cradled in his arms and then lowered her legs to the floor, holding her until she was standing steadily on her own.

She blushed when Lucius leaned over to murmur in her ear, "Think what might've just happened if it'd been only us here."


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

Draco glanced over his shoulder as they reached the iron gates of the graveyard. Granger walked between them, the hood of a heavy cloak borrowed from father's wardrobe—and hemmed with a flick of a wand so it didn't drape on the ground around her—up, covering her hair and obscuring her face.

"Shouldn't we have, I dunno," he said, turning up a frown at the night sky, "waited until daylight?"

"Well, no, because—wait!" She cut herself off as Lucius was about to open the gates. The Malfoy wizards exchanged a curious glance at her near-shout.

"Sorry, I just . . . ." She glanced around, noting the road was deserted aside from them. "With all the other things I'm able to do now, I just want to check something while we've time."

Draco's brow furrowed. "Not sure we really do have—"

"No, no." Lucius held up a hand. "It'll be quicker to let her than argue with her," he said, strangely certain what she was thinking.

Hermione backed up a few paces, pulling the ends of the cloak tight around her. Luckily, Draco had thoughtfully lent her his wand earlier in the evening so she was able to magically clean the one outfit she'd had with her—the one she'd unfortunately been buried in. She couldn't imagine trying this in some long drapey thing borrowed from the stash of Narcissa Malfoy's left-behind wardrobe.

Nodding, she took a run at the gate.

Draco braced for this to go poorly, wincing in anticipation. Lucius, however, watched the potential disaster with his arms crossed loosely and his expression open, expectant, even.

She soared clear over the gates' twisted spired tips. Her landing a little unsteady, she hit the ground on the ball of her right foot and her left knee, but the automatic relinquishing of the cloak's length as she impacted lent a certain flourish that camouflaged her rough stop.

The tension flooded out of Draco's body as he breathed a short, "Huh."

A half-grin plucked up one corner of Lucius' mouth.

Climbing to her feet, she turned to face them, her red-brown eyes glinting excitedly beneath the cloak's hood. "That was actually quite exhilarating!"

Lucius bowed his head, snickering at the vampire-witch's exuberance. Draco glanced back and forth between them before allowing himself an uncomfortable shudder. "Can we get a move on now, please?"

Without waiting for an answer from either of them, he opened the gates with a flick of his wand and started through. He didn't know if he liked or hated this new spark of life he saw in his father. Of course, he understood he should be glad the man found something to . . . enjoy, but it was the thing Father'd found enjoyment in that was giving Draco stress-related indigestion.

"Sure, sorry." Hermione nodded, turning on her heel to fall into step with him as Draco walked past her. "Anyway," she continued as Lucius caught up to them, "the reason to go at night is because anyone who might live here would actually be out looking for their next meal. Safest time for you two to be here, really."

Draco's brow furrowed. "So, _you_ made this decision to protect _us_?"

"Of course I did," she answered without a second thought, shaking her head.

His footfalls faltering, his gaze followed his father and Hermione Granger as they continued along the graveyard's winding path toward the mausoleums. When she'd pushed to accompany them in case her maker was here, he'd thought it a point of pride. Perhaps of her not wanting to be the one to explain to Astoria if something happened to him, of not wanting to lose her walking lunchbox if something happened to Lucius.

But he realized as he forced himself to trail after them that he had been wrong. She really _did_ want to protect them . . . really _did_ want to protect his father.

They actually cared for each other. That was better than his initial impression of their . . . dynamic, and yet somehow also worse.


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

Hermione paused, unsure why, but then realized this was another thing her body was doing instinctively. It might be home to another vampire—if not the one who bit her—and so she'd halted to draw in a long exhalation through her nostrils, checking for the scent she now recognized as that of another vampire's blood. After all, if she'd been able to detect it through levels of Malfoy Manor, past wood and stone and after so many centuries, then she couldn't imagine she wouldn't pick it up here, where one of them might still dwell.

Perhaps it'd be too much to hope they'd ever returned to their . . . home? Base? Lair? She wasn't even sure how to classify a vampire's subterranean hideout. Not important, what mattered _was_ whether or not they'd ever returned to their _dwelling_ bleeding.

Closer to the gates, where there were less-ancient mausoleums, she picked up nothing much but old earth, the dry bark of the sparsely planted trees with their equally dry and sparse foliage.

But then she caught something she didn't recognize, but that was painfully familiar.

Draco didn't notice she'd lagged behind until he saw that his father had stopped. Looking back, he found Lucius'd turned on his heel, watching Hermione as a troubled expression shaded her features.

"Miss Granger?" the elder Malfoy started, a hand raised in caution while he took a step toward her—Draco didn't know if it was odd, or if it made it easier for him to handle their changed dynamic, that they continued addressing one another formally. "What's the—?"

Sooner than he could finish asking, she'd bolted off through the gravestones.

Lucius dropped his hand to his side and frowned, shaking his head. "Of course," he said with a sigh.

"Who just takes off like that without a word? Honestly!" Draco couldn't believe he was so calm about this entire situation, having Granger rather blatantly display her nifty new abilities without a second thought, that a complaint about manners had just fallen from his lips.

Shrugging, Lucius started after her at a leisurely pace. "I think perhaps we should simply be grateful she chose to run at a speed we can actually _see_."

With a nod, Draco fell into step half a pace behind his father before the words registered. Stumbling to a halt over his own two feet, he asked, bewildered, "She can do that? Move so fast you can't see her?"

Lucius couldn't help chuckling at his son's shock as the young man uprooted his feet from the ground and started walking again. "It's been a _very_ long three days," he answered, continuing along.

When they circled through, passing Abraxas' grave, Lucius had a sudden sinking feeling about where she'd jetted off to. Already moving comparatively slow given her hurry to cross the graveyard, Draco was alarmed that Father's gait became noticeably hesitant.

They found her standing beside the grave . . . the caretaker had made a half-hearted effort to fill it in, but some displacement remained, circling the site with soft, leaf-strewn mounds of overturned earth. Slivers of wood from the lid of the box she'd been in still dotted the dry, old soil here and there.

Lucius, continuing slow—disturbingly like an animal tamer trying not to startle some new predator they were attempting to tame, Draco thought with discomfort—circled the grave site to come stand beside her. "Miss Granger?"

She knelt down and took a long sniff of the air closer to the soil. "They've been here, Mr. Malfoy. The one who bit me," she said, refusing to acknowledge the guilty party just now as the one who'd _killed_ her. Any bravado or confidence she had about their venture might crumble if she did.

"Other than when they put you here?"

If her heart still beat, it would be hammering her ribcage as answered Draco, "Yes." Looking up, she shifted her attention from him to lock on Lucius. "Whoever did this to me _knows_ I'm not where they left me."


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Draco's opening observation, please keep in mind that the scene of Lucius Malfoy scurrying off at a run to follow his wife and son during the Battle of Hogwarts was only in the film. The only time he's really portrayed as 'running' in the books is when he and Narcissa cut their way through the battling factions searching for Draco, other than that? Yeah, the man was not one much prone to panicky gestures/reactions.

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

Lucius moved after her on hurried footfalls—Father didn't do very much in the 'panicked running' department, so walking quickly was indeed a thing which related to anyone who'd ever met him that there was reason for concern—as Hermione made her way back through the graveyard toward the mausoleums. The younger Malfoy didn't bother to question the oddity of it that he found his father 'slightly rushing' more unsettling than the fact that they were following one vampire through a graveyard as they searched for the possible lair of another.

Sucking his teeth, Draco nodded to no one at all as he started after the two of them.

"Miss Granger, please!" Lucius said, his tone short, clipped, seething, even. "I _really_ must protest!"

She waved dismissively over her shoulder. Once more, Draco had a strange moment of realization—this time he noted that Hermione was wittingly moving at a pace they could follow without too much toil. Her cognizance regarding her maker had jarred her at first, but immediately afterward focused her senses, her thoughts, on their initial goal in having come here in the first place.

"Sorry, Mr. Malfoy, protest denied. You want to leave, you leave, but _I_ need to see if there's anything to be found here."

His features hardening into an unforgiving scowl, Lucius stepped quicker. He took advantage of his far longer limbs, reaching out and slipping a hand around her elbow. Yanking her to a stop, he spun her to face him.

"Have you lost your mind?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

She blinked up at him, surprised before giving into mirroring his expression. "I most certainly have not! I refuse to keep being afraid. Besides, we have no guarantee that they live in the . . . catacombs! That's what we should call them!"

"What?" Draco and Lucius asked in the same breath, each caught off guard by her non-sequitur exclamation.

"Oh," she answered, nodding as she glanced from father to son and back, some of the anger draining out of her. "I kept wondering what the subterranean dwelling of a vampire should be called. I went through base, home, lair, but given it's beneath graves, catacombs might suit. And it certainly has a ring to it."

Draco's brow furrowed. Drumming his fingers against his chin, he nodded. "Well, it _does_ have a ring to it, but I'm not sure that's enough to qualify as catacombs. I mean, don't they have to be subterranean tunnels that are burial grounds, themselves, not just, you know, tunnels running _beneath_ a burial ground?"

Her lips puckered in a thoughtful pout. "Huh, I suppose you might have a point. Still, I do like the way it sounds."

"Fair enough. Cata—"

"Are you two _quite_ serious right now?" Lucius roared, his slate eyes wide as his gazed darted between them.

Hermione met Draco's gaze, they shared a wince, and then returned their collective attention to Lucius.

"If we're going to be morons right now, at _least_ let's be morons with a purpose," he went on barking.

"Right, sorry, of course." Hermione nodded, hurrying in the direction of the mausoleums, once more.

Draco only stared at Lucius for several heartbeats. He understood in that moment how it was that Granger and Father could maintain their sanity during all this. The natural instances of levity that erupted had to be catered to, indulged, perhaps even coaxed into being, but it worked, somehow, to balance the dark madness into which they'd been flung.

Father, oblivious to Draco's realization, raised his brows, his features pinching into another scowl to make for a rather eloquent expression. He tipped his head to one side, sweeping his arm out to indicate that he should follow Granger.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled, wincing again as he slipped past Lucius.

His shoulders drooping, Lucius sighed and cast his gaze heavenward. He didn't know which of them would send him to his own grave sooner.


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

Hermione didn't quite know what she was following as she wound her way through the mausoleums. A scent had tickled her nose, not her maker, and not vampire blood—at least if it was the scent of another vampire, they weren't bleeding at present—and she'd gone in search of it. That it led toward the older, no-longer visited section of the graveyard where she'd already suspected they should be looking was either a sign they were on the right track, or an annoying coincidence.

She was leaning toward the former when she found herself standing before an absolutely ancient-looking domed box of marble. The walls were pitted, the grey-blue stone discolored by age and weathering, whatever religious icons had once adorned the formerly smooth rock worn down to no more than oblong rises and depressions.

The doors, however . . . . Narrow, wrought iron, the green of oxidized cooper or bronze, and yet—

"No, I think not," Lucius said, brushing in front of her to grab the door's handles in her place.

"Wha . . . ?" She glanced from one Malfoy to the other—a bit relieved to see that Draco shared her surprise at his father's abrupt action—and back. "Why did you do that?"

Lucius' features tightened as he considered the question. Yes, why _had_ he done that? He hadn't actually thought it through, simply the notion of . . . the notion of Miss Granger opening the doors and finding something ghastly, or something more dangerous than she was jumping out at her had spurred him into action before he could really think said action through.

He refused to answer her, instead he simply nodded at the—well, fine, his—at _his_ vampire-witch and his son. "Not the time for grousing, Miss Granger. Let's simply all be at the ready as a precaution, shall we?"

His wand arm at the ready, he stepped aside and pulled open one of the doors.

Hermione didn't quite know what to expect, but the stale breeze that gusted out into their faces was not it. "God," she said, covering her mouth and nose with her hands. "That is . . . _musty_. I sincerely hope vampires don't become insensitive to smells like this over time."

The bridge of Draco's nose crinkled in distaste as he waved his hand in front of his face. "But don't your people not need to actually breathe 'except to talk'?"

"Oh, right!" She nodded, feeling silly that it had to be pointed out to her that the vampires living here—if any did now, there was still no evidence of a _current_ resident—probably weren't bothered by the dense staleness because they just didn't breathe when it wasn't necessary, and simply let her lungs stop working. Smiling bashfully at her thoughtlessness, she mouthed a 'thank you' to Draco for the reminder.

Lucius pressed his sleeve over his nose before willing himself to ignore the heavy odor. "There's a breeze coming from _inside_ the mausoleum?"

"Yes, well, suppose that answers the question of where your ancestors found the, um, the subjects for their _barbaric_ experiments."

"Now, now, Granger," Draco said, the corners of his mouth turning up in an awkward grin. "Let's save that feistiness for anyone we might find in there, all right?"

Not wanting to inhale any more of the light, musty wafts, she merely nodded rather than answering verbally. She felt bad for Draco and Lucius, having to go through here with their perfectly working lungs.

She nudged her chin at them, indicating their wands. After they took the cue to cast their light charms—minimal, so as not to draw too much attention to themselves in whatever they might encounter—she stepped past them and entered the mausoleum.


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

They stood, crowded together, inside the worn marble box with its domed ceiling and ancient, lined walls where the names of the long-forgotten family buried here had faded away so many years ago. The light from the Malfoys' illuminated wands cast long shadows along the floor. The darkness warped and curled around mounds of dirt and dead leaves dragged inside by stronger wind or the feet of trespassers; it dripped into pocked crevices and tiny hollows carved out by vermin in the days when those buried here still had flesh clinging to their bones.

Despite the gust that had alerted them to this being the place, the opening permitting that stale breeze was not immediately obvious. The three exchanged confused looks. In the small space, there was no way to tell its direction.

It reminded Hermione of those hidden doors in Malfoy Manor, obscured by false panels or cleverly camouflaged placement. It also reminded her that she might have an edge on the wizards in this regard.

Though she regretted it—again feeling bad for Draco and Lucius in that they couldn't help breathing—she inhaled enough to speak. "Give me a moment." Removing her borrowed cloak, she held it out for either one of them to take.

When Lucius only twitched his brows, Draco groaned. "Bloody . . . ." He took the bundle of fabric and tucked it under his arm.

Her t-shirt bared her arms, letting her feel the movement of the air across her skin. Closing her eyes, she took advantage of her sharper senses. So often touch was ignored when people thought of heightened awareness—Muggle fictions went on and on about hearing and smell, sight and on rare occasion taste, but never touch. Never simply focusing on what one's flesh could tell them.

"What're you—?"

She held up a finger, quieting Lucius' question. In the resulting silence, she was able to determine the direction.

Opening her eyes, she took back her cloak. As she slipped it on, she nodded toward the corner to their right. Regrettably inhaling again, she said, "There."

Lucius sighed. "Oh, for the love of . . . . What is with this situation and false walls?"

She grinned up at him. "That's what I thought!"

Neither of them noticed Draco rolling his eyes.

As she took a step forward, Lucius placed a hand on her shoulder. She once more looked up at him, but he spoke before she could draw in the breath to ask the question.

"You can't keep being the first one to enter mysterious, potentially dangerous places, Miss Granger." He gave his trademark languid shrug and she ignored that she felt a stir at the fluidity of the action. This was no time for appreciating that his movements complimented his build . . . or perhaps it was the other way around.

She gave herself a shake. What was wrong with her? The notion that perhaps blood wasn't the only _requirement_ for her now teased at the back of her mind and she shoved it away. If she needed _that_ from him, that would have to wait until they were back at Malfoy Manor. Sans guests, of course, as she realized attacking Lucius Malfoy the moment the doors closed behind them was not outside the realm of possibility.

He stepped around her and went directly to the corner, brushing his fingertips along the walls in search of a seam. Honestly, she had no sense of how to let someone protect her, did she? Infuriating.

A creak rent the air as the wall gave way, opening inward beneath his hands. Slipping his illuminated wand in ahead of him, he stepped inside and disappeared into the darkness.

Hermione and Draco filed in after him, descending a steep, narrow staircase downward. They nearly stumbled over the elder Malfoy wizard where he'd abruptly stopped upon reaching the bottom.

She couldn't say she blamed Mr. Malfoy for the way he halted, whatever any of them expected to see, the antique furnishings and unlit candelabras, the plush, if dust-covered carpets on the ground were not it.

"Huh," Draco said, nodding. "Maybe 'home' wasn't an inappropriate title for this place."


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter Sixty**

"I don't see any footprints," she said, scanning the ground with her gaze.

After their initial shock, Draco'd cleared away the dust from the candles and lit them. Lucius had set off toward the farthest wall and began walking the perimeter of the cavernous space—that breeze couldn't be coming from an otherwise shut-up room.

Draco spoke over his shoulder while gently examining the items on the table, "Whoever bit you isn't using this space?"

"Perhaps," Lucius responded from where he went about exploring the walls. "It might mean they haven't used _this_ room for a time."

"He's right." Hermione nodded, not liking that they still had no answers. "We've no idea how old they are. If they're aware of what happened to those who'd used this room, they might've chosen to avoid it. That breeze means there's another way out, which _could_ mean more rooms like this."

Frowning pensively, Draco nodded. "I wonder . . ." he started, and then—without completing the statement—he took off his cloak and laid it upon the table.

Curious, Hermione wandered over. He must be invested in figuring this all out now, too, if he was willing to get his finely tailored cloak all musty. With a flick of his wand and a muttered levitation charm, he lifted the various items on the table and relocated them to rest on the clean, dark fabric.

"It'll be easier to study them when we're, well, anywhere else."

She'd thought it a bit broad-stroke—some items were ordinary, an old pair of spectacles, what looked like a smoking pipe, some books and a number of things that she did not immediately recognize even with her sharpened vision as they were all jumbled together, so she only saw the overall shape of them together. So much for jumping Lucius Malfoy as soon as they got home.

Her own thought brought her up short. Had she really just thought of Malfoy Manor as 'home?' No, no, she shook her head at no one and pivoted on her heel, facing the Malfoy wizard in question as his son gathered together the ends of his cloak, tying them to create a sack. It was simply . . . the way one might say 'let's go home' to a friend they were staying with after a long night out, it never meant _their_ home it only meant where they were sleeping.

She inhaled for the sole purpose of exhaling a calming breath. Having successfully talked herself out of a panic attack over how fast things were developing between them—not the first time she'd noticed or panicked about it—she forced herself to cross the gritty floor to follow Mr. Malfoy's progress.

Nearing him, the shadows deeper here than by Draco even with Lucius' wand illuminated, she saw what he was looking for. Touching his elbow, she waited for him to look at her and then tipped her head.

"What?" he asked, confused, only seeing an expanse of uneven wall in that direction.

It reminded her that film she'd seen as a child at the cinema. Huh, thinking of David Bowie now, with his long pale hair—prancing about in trousers _far_ too tight in the front—probably explained much about her current romantic situation.

"There's a break, the texture of the walls hides it." Heading for the seam she'd spied, she stepped through.

"Miss Granger, stop going off on your—"

" _Oh, my God!"_

The Malfoys rushed to follow—well, Lucius did. Draco hadn't a clue how she'd disappeared until he watched his father vanish through the near-invisible break in the cavern walls.

On the other side was a similar room, the sound of lapping water from far off filled the space indicating the other way out. The vampire-witch knelt beside a prone female form.

Hermione looked at the Malfoys, eyes wide in disbelief. She hadn't noticed until she was this close, but now she knew she'd caught this scent before. In a hidden room, from a bed with tethers on the posts.

"It's Patricia."


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter Sixty-One**

"It can't be." Draco's voice was barely a whisper as Lucius walked around to the woman's other side, opposite Hermione, and turned her gently onto her back.

"Well, if it isn't, then she's either wearing clothes from Patricia's room, or slept in Patricia's bed _recently_. Take your pick, as they share equal likelihood," Hermione snapped at him, her voice low.

Draco met her gaze with a withering glare. "How can you even tell?"

Her shoulders drooping, she tapped a finger against her nose. "Same way I found the oubliette and realized my grave'd been disturbed by my maker, or d'you forget all that so quickly?"

"I'm more concerned with how this is possible," Lucius said, cutting through their bickering.

He wasn't wrong. There was no way Patricia Malfoy should look like this. Her silvery-blond hair was thick and lustrous, her fair skin supple, she looked . . . . She looked like she hadn't aged a day since whenever her parents had decided to hide her away in that horrid room. Perhaps even younger than Hermione and Draco were. No more than eighteen? Twenty?

She wasn't breathing, but then they knew from Hermione's continued existence that functioning lungs were not a trademark of 'life,' as it were.

Hermione shook her head. She was unable to tell from scent, alone—Patricia was unharmed, so no blood to help with the distinction—whether the blond witch was like her, or a corpse kept under a stasis charm.

Each possibility presented its own problems. If a vampire, what was she doing 'sleeping' here, underground, after sundown? However, if a pretty, perfectly preserved corpse . . . . Well, frankly, she did not want to finish the thought on the probable motivations of whoever was keeping her like this, were the latter the case.

Focusing on the very real issue of Patricia Malfoy here and now, Hermione temporarily put aside the questions of how or why. Looking at the still-living Malfoys before her, she asked, "What do we do with her? We can't leave her here."

"What if she'd dead, Granger? We can't just go running around with a corpse tossed over one of our shoulders."

Lucius didn't bother glancing at his son as he said, "I'll pretend I don't know that you mean _my_ shoulder, not yours."

She sighed at Draco's question, ignoring Mr. Malfoy's snark despite that she wanted to laugh at his palpable contempt of the idea of toting about a potentially dead body for the second time in just over three days. "But what if she's like me?"

Lucius stood up, folding his arms across his chest and touching a fist to his chin as he considered the situation. Hermione deliberately refrained from watching him have a think, because she was already quite aware her current opinion on Lucius Malfoy was that no one had a right to look that tempting while simply standing about _thinking_.

"We need a better idea of what's happening in this place, and since Patricia isn't going anywhere . . . ." He met Hermione's gaze—for which Hermione kicked herself internally, because hadn't she _just_ said she wasn't going to watch him?—unable to help the smirk that briefly touched his lips at the way her fair cheeks dotted pink from the weight of his eyes on hers, alone. "Miss Granger, if she is like you, then you're the ideal candidate to look after her while Draco and I search this place. Wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione didn't much like the thought of minding Patricia if she turned out to instead be a charmed corpse, but she couldn't argue his point. Were she a vampire, too, then Hermione _was_ the ideal candidate, especially since none of them could know how Patricia would take to waking among three strangers invading what might be her home.

She also didn't much like the thought not getting to explore and investigate the place, herself, but she understood. _And_ she was pretending not to notice his smirk a moment ago. Smarmy bastard.

"Agreed."


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

She very much didn't like this. She'd thought it before, but now, as she sat on the gritty earth babysitting a possible corpse while the Malfoy wizards searched the premises _without_ her, she was beginning to border on loathing.

It was better for what precious little remained of Hermione's sanity at this point, she considered, if she treated Patricia as though perhaps she weren't dead. After all, _she_ wasn't breathing either, and yet, here she was. It was entirely possible they were exactly the same—just two harmless little vampire-witches.

Slipping off her borrowed cloak, she wadded it up and carefully pillowed the blonde witch's head upon the bundle of fabric. She shifted around, placing herself between the possibly dead Malfoy on the floor and the living ones wandering about, just in case she was both not dead _and_ not pleased to see any faces bearing trademark familial features.

"Not much here," Lucius called over from the far end of the chamber. "Although . . . ."

"Hmm?" Hermione glanced back at him over her shoulder. "What?"

"There's a jewelry box. Probably hers. I can't imagine—"

"Can't imagine some sick bastard just keeping a charmed corpse around would have access to such a thing?"

He nodded. "And I don't recall seeing anything of the like in her 'bedroom', if we can actually call it that."

"Would her parents really have bothered to put her jewelry box in a disappointments room?"

Lucius sighed. "They're Malfoys, of course they would. It's possible she managed to escape and took it with her. Brought it here, and then . . . ." He let his voice trail off again, this time emphasizing what he wasn't saying with a shrug.

"And then was turned by whoever was here?"

"Or was turned before she escaped," Draco shouted from where he was exploring a tunnel that led off from the chambers. "If her parents had managed to round up all of the ones who lived here at the time—which they might've, that was quite a few skeletons in the oubliette—the vampires might've realized there was no getting out for them, and if she sympathized with them, who knows what decision they came to?"

"So she managed to get out of the room, and let them turn her, or even convinced them to," Hermione said, nodding as she tacked on to his half-formed theory. "A . . . a form of propagating their species. They knew they were dying, she was their only way to survive, and then she came here, knowing her parents would rather consider her dead then come look for her. If that's what happened, it's just so awful and tragic."

There was a sound of metal jingling as Lucius carefully sifted through the box. "Here, one of the heirloom brooches that mysteriously went missing according to my great-grandfather. I wonder just how far back the lies went." His voice took on a sad sharpness as he went on, speaking mostly to himself. "Did he know what really happened to it when he told me that?"

Hermione's shoulders slumped, the heaviness in his tone pulling at her heart. Sooner than she could offer any words of sympathy or comfort—not that she had the foggiest idea of what to say in this situation—Draco called over to them.

"I found the way out!"

"What do we do with her?"

Lucius looked over at Hermione. "I . . . ." Sighing, he crossed the floor to look over her shoulder at Patricia. His ancestor's long-lost child and the woman who was sharing his bed—and his blood. Miss Granger clearly didn't realize she'd taken to a vaguely maternal gesture, stroking Patricia's hair with delicate fingers.

"I suppose leaving her here for whoever rendered her unconscious isn't an option." The elder Malfoy nodded in apparent agreement with his own words. "We take her with us."


	63. Chapter 63

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

He ground his teeth. No answers, no answers, no answers! She was just _gone_. He thought he recognized the scent that was mingled with hers at the gravesite, but the way it vanished . . . .

There had been a hope that working his way through the more frequented, less upkept, areas of Wizarding Britain would let him pick up the scent again, let him connect it with whom it belonged. Hoped that when he caught it again—more recent, more active—the memory of an identity would flicker through his mind.

Nothing. Nothing, and more bloody nothing. He thought he'd caught a whiff in the Leaky Cauldron, but it seemed Old Tom had just freshened up the place in preparation for the next day and whoever it was hadn't been there very long at all, at least not long enough to leave an impression that lasted through the application of heavy cleaning charms in an enclosed, heavily trafficked area.

He made his way back to the graveyard's gates, his dark eyes narrowing as he got closer. The scent was here, as was hers. How was that possible? Unless . . . .

Grinding his teeth, he cleared the gate and made a beeline for the mausoleum. He hated that he'd had to come here so often recently, yet hated even more that as he neared the hiding place, the scents traveled along with him.

Hated that the prolonged exposure to this scent made it no more familiar no matter how he thought he recognized it.

And he definitely hated that the door to the mausoleum stood open. A quiet growl rumbled out of his throat as he tore into the dark, cramped space to find the hidden door also ajar. He never used this entrance if he could help it, that was more _her_ thing, on the rare occasion she chose to leave, the pathetic lump.

He vaulted down the staircase, landing neatly on the thick, dusty carpet below.

They'd been here—even without the ancient candle's wicks being ablaze, he could smell them in here. His new creation, the one who'd been at the gravesite, and another. He already knew in his gut that their scents did not end here. He wouldn't find that they looped back up and returned the way they came. He proceeded through to her chambers.

In the entrance he paused, his perfect dark vision taking in the entirety of the room.

_She_ was not where he left her. Another growl thundered out of him, deep and menacing. They were _both_ gone, now.

He followed the scents out into the tunnels. At the exit, the scents disappeared. Just like at the gravesite.

Staring out into the night, a wash of crimson tinted his vision. He couldn't say what he was going to do to the ones who took what was his once he got his hands around their throats.


	64. Chapter 64

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

"Where, precisely, have you taken us?" Lucius asked, his insistent voice no more than a hissing whisper as they reappeared from Apparition.

Miss Granger, without explaining herself, had snatched Draco's wand out of his hand. The move took both wizards by surprise just as they'd made their way out of the tunnels to a suitable spot for unhindered magical travel. Without a word, she looped one arm through Lucius', keeping her free hand empty so she had just enough reach to touch the Levicorpus'ed Patricia, and tucked her wand arm around Draco's elbow, pulling all three side-along—a move she'd never had dared pull when she'd still been human.

They'd popped up in the sprawling backyard of a modest Muggle house in an unfamiliar rural area. Before he could even get his bearings, Lucius was railing.

She held the wand out for Draco to reclaim—which he did with narrowed eyes and a tragically insulted frown—and relinquished her hold on Mr. Malfoy. "Some place no one knows about," she answered as she approached the backdoor.

"Yes, because that narrows it down," Mr. Dramatic . . . Draco snapped, his pride clearly wounded by how quickly she'd disarmed him.

He clearly wasn't being fair to himself, she thought, and it wasn't like her to be so generous toward a Malfoy . . . . Well, that wasn't entirely true, she was _very_ generous with Mr. Malfoy, but that was in an entirely different fashion. If Draco considered the situation, he would likely realize she'd probably moved too fast at the time for him to've had the chance _to_ stop her.

But then, he probably wasn't in the mood for being fair to himself just now. No wonder Malfoys always looked so sour, they held themselves to irritatingly high standards, and this was coming from _her_.

"It was my grandparents' house. They passed years ago, but my parents keep the house so if I ever need a place when I'm visiting and can't stay with them for whatever reason—home renovations, or the odd magical malady—"

"The odd magical malady?" Lucius interrupted, suddenly a tad concerned—she might be undead, but neither of them had any idea what that meant in regard to transmission.

Glancing over her shoulder at him as she approached the door, she grimaced and shook her head. "I was helping an Auror in Domme, chasing down a Dark wizard and tumbled straight into a cursed thorn bush."

"A cursed thorn bush? Seriously?"

"They're not to be taken lightly, Draco." For someone with no real blood flow, Miss Granger's cheeks did a remarkable job of losing their color as she explained, "The thorns stick . . . and they burrow . . . and it takes weeks for the potions to force them back out. Let's leave the trip down memory lane there, shall we?"

The Malfoy wizards exchanged horrified look.

"As I was saying, this house is essentially mine. It's vacant when I'm out of town." Hermione wedged free a bit of loose wood around the windowsill and extracted a key—hide-a-key stones and atop the doorframe were far too easy guesses for potential intruders.

"That still doesn't answer the question of why you brought us here."

"Well," she said as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. "I realized with how easily I picked up my maker's scent, he'd have no trouble at all picking up mine. Which meant he'd pick up yours, and while he might not know who you are, there's a chance he might come across your scent elsewhere, recognize it from the gravesite, and follow it back to the manor. Also, I thought it might be too hard on Patricia to wake in a place where she was tormented."

Lucius' shoulders slumped. Miss Granger would certainly know; he'd never considered what it was like for _her_ to wake in Malfoy Manor when her only previous memory of the place involved Bellatrix torturing her.

His heart sunk a little as he directed Patricia through the door and then followed after. _Lord_ , he'd forgotten how annoying feelings could be.


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

They rested Patricia upon the couch in the den, at which point Draco asked, "What now? We can't just leave her like this."

Hermione folded her arms around herself, her gaze on the other woman's still form as she chewed her lip in thought. They had no idea what she'd be like when she awoke—if she awoke—or how she'd take to waking in an unfamiliar setting with strangers around her. Who knew what she would do?

Shrugging, Hermione said, "We ward the room. She needs to be restrained, just until she understands we aren't a threat, but we can't bind her or do anything . . . _claustrophobic_. With wards, it'll give the illusion she's not trapped because it's not a visible confinement. I think . . . yes, I think letting her see we're simply trying to keep ourselves safe without restraints is our only option."

"It probably _is_ the only way that won't make her immediately frightened of us," Lucius agreed.

Turning on her heel, she faced Draco.

Giving a little start to find the vampire-witch's attention fixed on him, he backpedaled half a step before catching himself. He glanced from his father to Hermione, and back. "What?"

She sighed. "You need to go home."

Brow furrowing, he looked at her as though she'd just spoken an alien language. "What?" he asked again. "Why?"

"Astoria. You can't have her worrying. She expected you to visit your dad hours ago. You can't have her wondering if something happened, and you certainly can't risk her deciding to go to the Manor to look for you."

"Bloody hell, you're right!" His grey eyes glinted a bit frantically as he glanced between them, again. "But what about my scent? Just like your maker might follow my father's from some other area to the Manor, what if he—or she—picks up mine and follows it to Greengrass Estate?"

Unease pooled in the pit of Hermione's stomach. She'd known it was a bad idea to involve Draco in this, but he'd made a good argument at the time. "Apparate there and then . . . surprise her with a trip. Tell her you want to have time, just the two of you, to sort out further details for the wedding and honeymoon!"

The wizards exchanged a quick look, both of them wearing the same pensive frown.

"You're good at this," Draco announced, infuriatingly surprised by her quick wittedness.

She arched a brow. "I'm clever, and—breathing or not—still female. Figuring a way to handle it wasn't hard to sort out. Now go, please. Before she feels like she has to check on you at the Manor."

Draco nodded. "Let me know what happens here, okay? Father always knows how to reach me wherever I am."

Hermione offered him a small smile. Draco Malfoy was actually concerned for more than just his father's involvement in this. It was strangely sweet. "We will."

She had the grace to avert her attention for a moment, finding the pattern of the wood paneled walls suddenly very intriguing as father and son bid each other farewell. One didn't need to be close with the Malfoys to know they weren't fans of public displays of affection of any sort, which included utterly mundane, if meaningful, gestures like handshakes.

With a parting nod to Hermione, he vanished.

Meeting Lucius' gaze now that they were—mostly—alone, she nodded toward the Patricia and then slipped her hand into Lucius.' She led him around the room to ward the windows and then brought him to the entryway.

He finished the warding and they turned as one to look the blonde witch on the other side of the invisible barrier. "And now we wait," Hermione said, concern etched across her features.

Lucius stepped away, just enough that the wall blocked view of them from Patricia's place on the couch. Her hand still in his, he tugged her to him. "Whatever shall we do to pass the time, Miss Granger?" he asked, his breath warm against her lips.


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at nearly 70 chapters here, people. 70! I can't believe it. Like I have no idea where this story is coming from or going, but you're all along for the ride and that just tickles me XD

**Chapter Sixty-Six**

Hermione didn't argue as he very nearly tore her jeans from her—she had a trunk with spare clothes upstairs, it was fine if he ripped the zipper or popped the button. She was too busy being pleased that she hadn't been the only one simply waiting to be alone to truly mind a ruined garment.

They had no idea when their guest might wake, so by mutual unspoken agreement, they recognized the need for expediency. That was all right, she'd let him make up for the lack of foreplay next time.

He had the easy part and she found herself with a sudden overwhelming admiration for wizard robes. Lucius pinned her body against the wall with his own, hurriedly pulling her legs around his hips as he swept open the folds of material.

She had no idea how it was that she was so completely eager and ready for him, yet she was. When he positioned himself and rocked forward, she bit hard into her bottom lip, shuddering in total bliss at his entry.

"No, no," he said, his voice a husky, breathless whisper as he withdrew and sank forward again. Lifting one hand to cup her jaw, he eased the pad of his thumb across her mouth, gently plucking her lip from between her teeth. Plunging into her fast and hard, he then slid his fingers from her jaw to the back of her neck. Gripping a fist in her hair, he guided her mouth to the side of his throat.

Oh, God. She wanted to resist, to protest feeding from him right now when it would be so easy to get carried away, but she couldn't think. Couldn't form the words, not at the wonderful tingling warmth shaking through her with each of his thrusts, nor the sweet, utterly enticing scent of his blood from his open wound teasing her senses.

"Go on," he murmured, dropping his forehead against her shoulder, keeping his throat offered to her.

"I . . . ." It was so difficult to deny any part of this. Their bodies understood the urgency as much as their minds, because she was already tensing, hyper-aware of the feel of him inside her, of the way she clenched around him. Only a few minutes and she was already _there_.

So was he. She could tell from the force of his rushing breaths against her skin and the shivers quaking through his limbs as he held her.

He was right. How perfect it would be to taste his blood on her tongue as they pushed each other over the edge.

And so she sank her teeth in. Time blurred for a few mindless moments, a whirlwind of relief and ecstasy while she came, while he spent himself. She couldn't even cry out, preoccupied with suckling his blood from the wound.

She lost herself in it, only coming back around as he gently pried her mouth off his throat some heartbeats later, his breathing ragged but steadying, his body stilled and a little shaky as he held her.

Hermione licked a few lingering droplets her from her lips as she met his gaze. "I should go change," she said in a whisper.

He nodded, easing her feet to the floor and releasing her.

Fortunately, her wobbly knees didn't hinder her from rushing up to the bedroom—she didn't want to leave him alone down there longer than necessary. Thinking she was in a comfortable place, and regardless of what happened with Patricia, wanting something . . . less complicated while she and Lucius stayed here, she pulled on a simple over-sized nightshirt.

She was back downstairs, by his side, within seconds.

Lucius smirked, his gaze raking over her choice of attire.

_"Where am I?!"_

Hermione's eyes shot wide and she stepped over to the ward. "Patricia Malfoy?" she started softly, "please don't panic. We won't—"

"Oh, my Lord," Patricia said, struggling to her feet. A small, relieved smile tugged at her lips. "It's you!"


	67. Chapter 67

**Chapter Sixty-Seven**

Hermione had no idea what to do at Patricia Malfoy's first words, not a situation she often found herself in. She exchanged a glance with Lucius, who remained guarded from view by the wall.

Swallowing hard, she met Patricia's gaze. "You know me?"

Patricia nodded, her eyes unsettlingly eager. "You don't remember?"

The other woman's wounded tone hurt, and Hermione wanted to respond in a way to ease Patricia's pain. Instead, she chose honesty—there would be no answers if she pretended. "I'm sorry, I don't."

"Oh." Patricia lowered her gaze to the floor, nodding again, as though she should expect nothing more.

"The last I remember," the brunette offered, "is being in Diagon Alley."

Patricia's head snapped up, her mouth agape. "Yes, yes!"

Hermione looked to Lucius. "Lower the wards," she said, her voice quiet. She was aware Patricia heard, regardless, and that she knew another person was there, but she was trusting Hermione by reacting so calmly.

Lucius looked at her as though she'd sprouted a second head.

"She trusts me, I need to trust her, too. Please. Let me have talk to her alone."

With a lid-fluttering roll of his eyes, he lowered the wards, making no move to come into view. She mouthed a quick _thank you_ and entered the den.

"That's truly the last I remember," Hermione said, frowning as she neared the other vampire-witch. "I've been struggling to recall anything more for days. I think . . . I think I died for a few moments, and it traumatized me."

Patricia's forehead creased as she listened.

Hermione realized belatedly that she might not understand simply because it was probably a word she'd never had reason to hear before. "Oh, um, traumatized . . . is another way of saying you're affected by something very bad that happened to you."

"That would make sense," Patricia answered, and it registered on Hermione how demure a creature she was, slender and small boned, probably quite weak when she'd been human. It made what her parents had done all the more barbaric—simply locking her door would've been enough, but to restrain her on top of that was monstrous. "I'd believed he'd killed you. I'm not pleased to learn I was right."

"He, who, Patricia?"

At the question, her grey eyes took on a distant glint. "He came upon us. It'd been so long since I'd been there that I got . . . all turned 'round. I was confused . . . scared." Her expression brightened as her eyes focused, locking on Hermione's. "You found me. You tried to help me. We started walking, and then there he was. 'Round the corner, in the darkness where humans would not see."

Hermione didn't want to prod, this was clearly very upsetting for the woman, but she needed to know. "Patricia—"

"He tore you away from me and bit you right there . . . . Dragged us both back to the graves. I couldn't stop him, I'm sorry!"

It was involuntary that Hermione found herself breathing. Involuntary that a shaky exhalation escaped at how contrite Patricia sounded. "It wasn't your fault."

"But it was!" Suddenly she was tugging her at her silky platinum locks, her voice a strangled sob. "If I weren't so useless you'd never have been in danger!"

_Okay, Hermione, different tack_ , she thought as she crossed to Patricia and in a strangely older-sister gesture gently untangled the other young woman's fingers from her hair. "Well, if you think you're responsible, then I forgive you for your part in what happened to me."

The poor dear met Hermione's gaze again, her eyes swimming. "Really?"

Hermione nodded emphatically.

"But I'm the one who bit him. He found me, came to me, _insisted_ I change him even after . . . ." Patricia forced a gulp down her throat. "Even after how he trau—traumatized me."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. Hermione felt her own eyes flood with tears as she considered who that probably meant.

"Who was it, Patricia? The one you bit, the one who bit me? Who is he?"

Looking positively beside herself, Patricia blinked to keep herself from crying as she whispered, "My father."


	68. Chapter 68

**Chapter Sixty-Eight**

" _What?!"_

The revelation pulled Lucius from his hiding place nearly before he realized he was moving. Wheeling around the bend in the wall, he was crossing the floor to stand before the women by the time he caught up with himself.

"Oh, Lord! Oh, _no_!" Patricia's voice was no more than a sobbing gasp as she backpedaled, her steps so quick she was back on the sofa, huddled there like a frightened child sooner than he could blink.

Hermione's heart broke at the sight of the other vampire-witch's visible shaking. Faster than she or Mr. Malfoy could speak, however, Patricia was going on, practically wailing as she tugged a her beautiful hair, again.

"I'm sorry, Octavius! I—I didn't know he bit you! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_! Please forgive me!"

"Octavius?" Hermione and Lucius echoed the name in the same breath as they exchanged a glance.

Remembering quickly where they'd heard that name before, Hermione pressed a light hand against Lucius' chest, cautioning him from approaching his many-times-great aunt. This certainly answered any question she ever might've had regarding a family resemblance throughout the Malfoy line.

Of course, it also tragically answered the question of how the rest of her family treated her while she'd been alive.

His broad shoulders slumped, but he rolled his eyes and nodded. Even with his wand and Patricia's . . . . seemingly diminished capacity—which he suspected was more a result of her father keeping her existing in a constant state of fear and emotional neglect all these long centuries than any sort of mental deficiency—he knew he was the most physically vulnerable person in the room. He had little choice but to allow Miss Granger to settle Patricia's frayed nerves on her own.

Her hands held up in a placating gesture, Hermione crossed the room on slow, precise footfalls. "No, Patricia, no. This isn't Octavius. Your brother lived a long life and died many, many years ago. Still human. This is his descendant, your many-times-great nephew, Lucius. _Lucius_ didn't know about you, or what your parents did to you until just recently. He won't hurt you, I promise." Hermione heard her voice shake a the assurance she'd had to give. She completely believed her own words, of course, but it hurt so deeply that the poor woman had lived such a life that the guarantee was necessary. "Do . . . do you have any idea what year it is?"

Her full lower lip trembling fiercely, Patricia's wide, watery grey eyes remained locked on Lucius for a tense, drawn out few seconds before she granted Hermione her attention. "No," she said, sounding on the verge of tears.


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, since this part of the story is turning out to be a bit more, shall we say emotionally dense than I was expecting, I'm kind of wading through it little-by-little, so the chapters will probably be shorter than usual (like yesterday's).

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

Hermione didn't know if she'd ever hated any single person in her entire life as much as she hated Astor Malfoy—all right, so perhaps he'd pull in a strong second behind Voldemort—and she'd never even met the man. Well, she supposed that technically she had, but she didn't recall, and for the sake of her own sanity, she was going to preserve that moment when she had encountered him as _forgotten_.

Patricia had filled in enough of the blanks, so there was nothing more Hermione needed from that gap in her memories.

Once more, Hermione came over to Patricia and untangled her fingers from her hair. Sitting down beside the huddled young woman, Hermione took a chance, holding one of Patricia's hands between both of her own.

"Do you want to know how long it's been since you left your family's manor?"

The blonde nodded, a trembling little bird-like gesture.

"This may be a shock for you to hear, are you sure you're ready?"

Her beautiful, porcelain face crumbling with uncertainty, Patricia said, "Likely not even remotely. But what choice have I? Go on."

Hermione gave a nod of her own. Even in her scattered and worried state, Patricia Malfoy was pragmatic. A lot like her many-times-great nephew, Lucius; a lot like Hermione, herself. She thought there was a very good chance they'd grow to be friends after the more stressful parts of this were sorted . . . like tearing Patricia's terrible father limb-from-limb with their bare hands.

"Okay," Hermione said to herself, nodding again. Bracing, she spoke in as gentle a tone as she could manage, "Okay. It's . . . it's been over three hundred years."

"Three . . . ." Patricia's ashen cheeks went paler, still. Her enormous eyes—Hermione could now see from so near that the grey was ever so faintly flecked and tinted with crimson, so slight the melding of colors became a strange yet striking gradient mauve up close. "Three hundred . . . ?"

Hermione opened her mouth to try and soothe the other vampire-witch's spiking agitation, when suddenly Patricia slumped in place.

"Oh!" Hermione looked over at an equally surprised Mr. Malfoy, then back to the unconscious woman before returning her attention to him. "What . . . ?"

Lucius sighed, his shoulders sloping downward as he recalled Miss Granger's quite similar response that first night when he'd informed her that she no longer had a pulse.

"Fantastic," he said, his murmured tone somewhere between resignation and exasperation. "We've got another fainter."


	70. Chapter 70

**Chapter Seventy**

Hermione carefully eased Patricia to lie down on the sofa, a wince tugging at her features as she moved. Backpedaling, she came to stand beside Mr. Malfoy.

"So, um, what now?"

He looked at her, his brows lifting. "You're asking me?"

"Wha . . ." She puffed out her cheeks, rotating her hands in the air, palms up, as she tried to reason it out. "Of the two of us you are the only person to have dealt with a vampire fainting on them before."

His grey eyes swung from the vampire-witch at his side to the one out-cold several feet away. A long, unpleasant grumbling sounded at the back of his throat. "If she's anything like you," he finally said, only after he'd gone on with that admittedly insufferable noise just long enough to visibly irritate Miss Granger, "then she'll be hungry when she wakes up."

His deliberate attempt to annoy her fell to the wayside as his words sank in. "Hungry?" Hermione echoed the words, suddenly uneasy. "Oh, no. That . . . that can't happen. You're . . . God, I hate putting it this way, but you're the only present food source for one of us."

Lucius' lip curled at the thought—odd as it was that it wasn't the act that bothered him, so much as the thought of a vampire who wasn't _her_ putting their mouth on him—as he started rolling up a sleeve. "I can offer her my wrist. Let her take just enough to get her wits—"

"Absolutely not," Hermione snapped without a second's thought.

Meeting her gaze, he arched a brow.

She knew that expression. There was that expectancy of his again, daring her to explain herself.

Pulling her eyes from his, she dropped her attention to the floor. She fidgeted in place, appearing just short of giving into an awkward foot shuffle as she shrugged. "I know it . . . I know it wouldn't mean anything other than offering her sustenance, and she'll probably need it, I got the impression Astor doesn't permit her to feed often—it's why her mind is so weak—but I just . . . ." She exhaled forcefully. "I just _can't_ share you. Not . . . not one single drop."

She looked up at him again. "What?"

That brow stayed arched, but now one corner of his mouth plucked upward in a half-grin. "Not speaking only of my blood, are we?"

Loosing an unattractive groan, she hung her head. "I thought we'd already established this back at the manor."

"That's to presume I would mind terribly hearing a reconfirmation."

Hermione's nostrils flared. "When you speak so formally to try to get your way, it burrows under my skin. You know that?"

His head tipped to one side. "Does it, really?"

She scowled, nodding.

That half-grin of his widened, truly amused with himself. Things really were so simple when it was just the two of them—which it was for the moment. "Then I shall endeavor to do so more often."

Hermione tried to remain sternly displeased with him, but the mischievous glint in his grey eyes was her undoing. Truly, no one in the whole of Wizarding Britain would believe her if she told them he was _anything_ like this while they were alone. This aspect of him was all hers.

"Cheeky bastard," she said quietly, smiling in spite of herself.

He lifted a finger, his expression shifting into one of mild surprise. "I've a thought."

"Shock to your system, was it?"

"Oh, now who's being cheeky?" He reached behind her, swatting her bottom and was rewarded with a startled gasp from her. "I meant about the blood. There is a spell to create water . . . so . . . I'm thinking . . . ." He left off, shrugging.

Her brows shot up. "That's madness, but I suppose it's worth a shot. Hang on." Rushing off to the kitchen, she returned in less than the space of two heartbeats with a small bowl in her hands.

She set it upon the coffee table before the sofa. "Well," she said, stepping back beside him. "Let's see, then."

Withdrawing his wand, Lucius mustered his focus. With a fluid wave of his hand, he said, " _Sangui_ menti."


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to drop a quick note after some folks had questions about the end of yesterday's chapter. It's based on the aguamenti spell, which is referred to as a water-making spell (or water conjuring, and listed as opposite to fire-conjuring [in which case, the fire is also 'created' and not taken from another source]), and unlike human food created with magic, aguamenti supplies clean, drinkable water. Blood is made up of naturally-occurring elements (including water and the nutrients/elements therein), so I don't see any reason conjured blood couldn't be a source of (at least temporary) sustenance for a vampire.

**Chapter Seventy-One**

They watched together, in shared, hopeful sort of disbelief as a rich jet of crimson streamed from Lucius' wand into the bowl. When was decently filled, he let the improvised spell empty out and then lowered his wand to his side.

For what might've been too long, they both simply stared at the small offering of what they both prayed was viable blood. Hermione wondered why this hadn't occurred to either of them before. Lucius wondered if they'd just broken some unwritten magical law.

Oh, well, no _un_ doing it, so . . . back to business.

"Is it . . . good?"

Hermione thought it was a bit cute the way he tried so hard not to sound uncertain. Despite finding it endearing, she wanted to soothe his moment of—tiny, fleeting, insignificant, she was sure—worry.

She inhaled deep through her nostrils, taking in the scent. Her mouth watered. Clearing her throat, she gave herself a little shake, keeping her wits about her. It didn't smell as appetizing to her as Mr. Malfoy's blood, but then she supposed she could forgive herself for her bias.

"It certainly smells real enough," she assured him with a nod.

"You don't want to give it a taste to be certain?"

A smirk curving her lips, she now shook her head.

He mirrored her amused expression. "Good."

"Good?" she echoed.

Lucius shrugged in that languid, lazy way of his. "It might sound a little . . . bizarre—"

"Yes, because we've dealt with nothing else 'bizarre' in all of this."

"Hush, you," he said, giving her another swat on the bottom like earlier. This time she was prepared for it, so there was no startled gasp, but she didn't move out of the way, either. "I mean to say that it's a little like you not wanting to share my blood. In a way—perhaps this is an entirely unhealthy take on things—it feels quite the same to imagine you taking your blood from another source."

She bit her lip on a grin. "So . . . ." Hermione waved her hand toward the table. "You're jealous of bowl?"

He rolled his eyes, his head shaking though he couldn't help laughing at himself. "Knew I shouldn't have said it aloud."

She wanted to reach for him, to pull him close and stand on her toes, to brush her mouth against his. But she knew that would lead to things best not done in front of an audience.

Deliberately stepping away from him, she approached the sofa.

"Miss Granger, what're you doing?"

Pausing as she reached the other vampire-witch, she looked back at him over her shoulder. "One of us should check her eyes, and it's safer for you to keep your distance."

Remembering her response to his nearness after waking from her fainting spell that first night, he nodded. Rather an awkward situation if that scene were to repeat with his own ancestor.

Hermione turned to face Patricia. And both she and Lucius humped to find her sitting up.

Hurrying to respond before the other woman even opened her eyes, Hermione knelt beside her. She placed the bowl into Patricia's limp hands, guiding her fingers to curl around it.

Clasping her hand around Patricia's, Hermione lifted the bowl.


	72. Chapter 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I somehow managed to pinch a nerve in my left wrist (don't even know how, but it's like right on the inside of the arm, where the palm meets the wrist, and I can feel the strain of it up toward my middle knuckle, and back up the other way, through the muscle along the topside of my forearm, so definitely feeling it while typing [if anyone was forced through learning professional typing, you know what I'm talking about]). Pray for my dumbass.

**Chapter Seventy-Two**

The meek little thing drained the bowl. Allowing Hermione to take it from her hands and set it back down, Patricia let out a rough breath. Her eyes were still closed, and as she opened them, Hermione could see the receding crimson.

So, they had been right to prepare blood for her, after all.

A bit of color came into her features, and only then did Hermione realize how very pale Patricia had been before—not merely a washed-out version of herself, as Hermione was, and as Patricia, herself, was now, but _chalky._ Hermione thought it a wonder that the poor thing hadn't realized she was hungry sooner, but then with her atrocious father overseeing her existence up until _very_ recently, it was perhaps no wonder that starvation had become a constant state of being for her.

Patricia tipped back her head, appearing deep in thought for several moments. Hermione didn't take her eyes off the other woman. She wanted to gauge Mr. Malfoy's reaction, but was aware he was likely watching Patricia with the same barely veiled apprehension as she was—after all, as sweet and demure as she seemed, as tragic as her history was, they had no idea what sort of person Patricia Malfoy might truly be.

Now that she might have some of her strength back; now that she might have her wits about her.

Then, Patricia looked at each of them in turn before training the full weight of her attention on Hermione. "Will you help me with something?"

Hermione felt her eyes widen at the unexpected intensity in those grey-mauve irises. "If . . . if I can," she answered with a helpless shrug.

"Good." Patricia nodded, quick and firm. She reached out, clasping both of her hands around one of Hermione's in a pleading gesture. "I need you to help me kill my father."

"Of course!" The words spilt from Hermione's lips the second they flickered across her mind, no filter to contain them so she might think for a moment, no disguising of the anger in her tone as she thought of Astor Malfoy.

A relieved smile broke across Patricia's face, making the blonde vampire appear absolutely angelic.

Hermione smiled back, her heart light at the notion of ridding the world of that horrible creature who'd done this to her . . . . Who'd tortured and murdered their kind only to end up wishing for this existence, himself. Who'd held his own daughter prisoner all this time.

"Miss Granger?" Lucius said, his strained voice slipping from between lightly clenched teeth.

She tore her gaze from Patricia's to look up at him. "Hmm?"

He nodded toward back toward living room area. "A word, if you would?"

Hermione winced as she watched him disappear from sight. Perhaps he'd have appreciated a quick chat before she'd wholeheartedly agreed that they'd participate in a spot of vampire slaying—even if the vampire in question was in dire, _dire_ need of slaying. Especially after he'd been so keen on keeping her safe.

Glancing at Patricia, Hermione gently patted her knuckles in a sign of reassurance before slipping the fingers of her other hand from Patricia's grasp. Standing, she said, "I . . . I think I'd better go see to that. We'll be right back, I promise."

Hermione turned, squaring her shoulders before she followed after Mr. Malfoy, braced for the elegantly-whispered lecture of her life.


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who offered advice and/or well wishes regarding the pesky, misbehaving nerves in my wrist.

**Chapter Seventy-Three**

When she got into the dining room—on purposefully _human_ speed footfalls—he was pacing. His dignified, long-legged strides would've made it difficult to gauge his temper . . . . Until one took into account the urgency with which that dignified, long-legged stride was eating up the space in the room.

" _So_ . . ." she started, dragging out those two little letters. "Problem?"

He halted, snapping up his head to lock his eyes on hers. "Problem?" Lucius echoed in a hiss—ooh, there it was! That elegant, if furious, whisper she'd braced for—and then squared his jaw. "Are you quite serious right now?

Hermione's shoulders slumped—she knew it was insult to both of them to play dumb. A mockery of his intelligence if she expected him to believe it, and hers if he pretended it worked. "Okay, I know it wasn't wise to jump to answer like that, but—"

"What in the name of _all_ that is holy and sanctified possessed you?!"

She barely refrained from rolling her eyes at him. "Killing the monster who tortured all those vampires? Who tormented his own daughter into near-madness? No, I can't imagine why I'd be up for ending his miserable existence!"

Eyes narrowing, he tipped his head to one side. "I noticed you didn't mention him turning you into a vampire."

This seemed a strange time for her cheeks to tint a pale, dusty pink. Knitting her fingers together, she shrugged and looked off, arching one brow as she said, "Well, perhaps it's not actually been so terrible a turn in my _life_. I found some . . . benefits I hadn't considered."

Oh, she thought she could distract him, did she? A scowl pinched his features. She was good, because of course there he was recalling said 'benefits' himself, right in the middle of a disagreement.

Hermione Granger certainly was a crafty little thing.

Lucius collected himself. "I think we should strive to keep on topic, Miss Granger, don't you?"

She bit her lip, nodding. "Sorry." Glancing back toward the den, she said, "Anyway, why you're surprised I'd want Astor dead?"

"I'm not, quite the contrary." With a sigh, he stepped before her, gently curling his fingers around her upper arms. "I am, however, cautious about putting trust in a woman we've known less than an hour. There's no denying her life was tragic, but we have no idea who she truly is now, and I think you may be letting what you know of her past foster a confidence between you."

He wasn't wrong, she thought a bit miserably. "That may be true," she said, lifting her eyes to his, "but I just feel it in my gut. You met me before all this, you know I'm not usually one to favor instinct over logic, but . . . since this happened to me, my instincts have been making more and more sense."

Once more, those grey eyes—she'd not mention to him that his eyes were actually sort of beautiful, sigh-inducing, really, because that would simply go to his already insufferably egotistical head—narrowed at her. It was a sharp, appraising look. "Is this the moment when you ask me not trust her, but to trust you?"

She answered his question with a smug grin.

"Mm-hmm," he breathed the sound, then slipped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her up onto her toes.

His lips were soft, warm, alive against hers and she felt his breath rush into her as his tongue darted out to teasingly caress hers.

It only lasted a few seconds, but that was enough to leave her flustered.

"Oh, dear," she said, realization kicking in. When his brows lifted in question, she asked, "How is it possible with everything we've done the past few days that we only _just_ had our first kiss?"

Lucius snickered. Lacing his fingers through hers, he turned and started walking with her back to the den.


	74. Chapter 74

**Chapter Seventy-Four**

Stepping back into the den, the couple found Patricia kneeling before the television set. It was a clunky old thing, outdated 'rabbit-ear' antennae sitting atop it, bulbous grey-green glass screen protruding from an ornately detailed frame of fabricated wood. Hermione couldn't remember ever watching anything on it; she imagined since it had been a favorite of her grandparents that it might even be black and white, if it still worked at all. She'd never had the heart to throw it out, and so it had just become another thing in the house she occasionally used like a table.

The blonde vampire-witch had her palms pressed to the surface as she tipped her head side-to-side, her gaze locked on that of her own slightly-wonky reflection in the warped glass. She appeared utterly fascinated by it.

"Uh, Patricia?"

"Hmm?" She looked over her shoulder at them. "Oh." A bashful smile spread across her lips. "I hadn't realized you two were courting earlier," she said in a soft voice, as though sharing a secret, sooner than they could respond, however—courtship, sure that was certainly one way to put it—she returned her attention to the television screen. "This is a funny mirror, isn't it?"

Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled. She didn't need to look at Mr. Malfoy to know his expression read something like ' _Oh, that's a Muggle thing? Well, that's all_ you _, then, Miss Granger. Have at it.'_

Clearing her throat, Hermione moved further into the room. "No, no, it's not . . . it's a . . . ." How on earth did one explain a television set to someone who'd not been let out into the world since long before their invention? "It's a Muggle device which no longer works. The ones that _do_ work, well, people use them to watch plays performed in remote locations."

Patricia snapped her head around to fix Hermione with a wide-eyed stare. "Muggles can do such things now?"

Pursing her lips, Hermione kept to herself the sentiment that her father had _really_ done a number on her. He'd done her no favors by keeping her underground all this time. "Yes."

With a thoughtful frown, the young woman returned her attention to the blank screen. "If it no longer works, why do you keep it?"

"Sentimental value. My grandparents cherished it."

"I have so much to catch up on," Patricia whispered fretfully. "I suppose, when it's safe, you'll have much to teach me."

Hermione and Lucius exchanged a glance. They mirrored one another's expressions—wondering, dubious. When, precisely, had they signed on to become the surrogate parents to vampire older than both of them who was clearly recovering from innumerable emotional and mental traumas?

"There are . . . some matters which we should clear up, first," Lucius said in a gentle tone as Patricia climbed to her feet and turned to face them, " _before_ plans to go murdering anyone are put into place."

She didn't flinch at the mention of murder, only looking at them with a sort of innocent expectation in her enormous grey-mauve eyes.

Hermione was going to pretend she hadn't just felt Mr. Malfoy nudge her to ask the first question. "I, um, I got an impression that it had been a while since the last time you fed. When _was_ the last time you had blood?"

Patricia opened her mouth to answer, but said nothing yet as she pointed toward the bowl.

"Oh, no, no." Hermione closed her hands over her face as a sharp, immediately exasperated sigh erupted from Lucius. _Patricia, you poor dear thing_ , she thought as she let her hands fall away. "I mean prior to that."

Her pale eyes clouding over in a distant fog, Patricia dropped her gaze to the floor. Her brow furrowed, the lines of it deep and angry in her pale skin as she concentrated.

After an awkwardly long time, she looked up at Hermione once more. When she spoke, her voice was small and scared, thick with the unshed tears that came with a horrible realization. "I don't know."


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest thanks to the readers who've been taking the time to comment on the daily chapters, it's appreciated. I know it can be hard to find things to talk about daily, or you might feel like you're going to annoy or bother me by saying thank you or great chapter every day, but it really is helping me to get through this. When I started this fic, I was under the impression quarantine/isolation was going to be maybe a month, and here we are on chapter 75 of daily updates. There are days when I don't feel like doing this, but I keep at it, because I promised I would. There are days it's exactly what I need to get into writing mode, and then there are days when I think I'm going to write 'so much!' and then by the time I get through my day and get to actually being able to write, I get through the 700 words of the daily update and I'm done, it saps all the creative energy I'd had.
> 
> So, from the bottom of my little black heart, thank you for keeping up with the encouragement even when you might now know quite what to say. 😊

**Chapter Seventy-Five**

_She awoke to silence. For a few heartbeats, it seemed impossible that she'd fallen asleep with the horrific sounds echoing up to her, but then she'd been so very tired, and the screaming had been going on for so long, perhaps it should not be a surprise that she'd drifted off._

_Or that the thing to wake her had been the sudden absence of those terrible cries._

_Her room, so often dark save for what faint light filtered up from the oubliette's hatch, was lit, and she knew before looking what that meant. The leather cords had been loosened enough that she could slip her wrists and ankles free. Moving away from her binds with slow, experimental movements, she pulled herself to sit up on the bed._

_On the bedside table rested the lantern and a covered tray. One of the elves had popped in with her evening meal . . . . Wait, was it evening? Patricia was sure it must be, she recalled it being lunch last. Wait, did she? She honestly couldn't remember clearly enough to say for certain._

_The silence from below unnerved her. Scrambling off the bed, she hurried as fast as her stumbling footfalls would carry her to the hatch._

"Hello?!"

_In response, she heard the rasping sound of voices trying to speak—trying to be clear._

_A gasp tore out of her at how weak they sounded. It was happening. Father was getting his way. He was finally breaking them._

_Her bedroom door creaked open behind her. She whirled in place, bracing her hands back against the stone ledge, terrified to be caught here rather than innocently sitting on her bed, eating her meal like a good girl._

_The door was ajar, and there stood Mother, her head poked through the gap. Her porcelain face was positively ashen, yet Patricia dared not hope for anything . . . . She could not trust that perhaps Mother had finally seen how terrible and gruesome Father's 'experiments' were._

_How terrible and gruesome Father, himself, had become._

_Millandra glanced over her shoulder, back down the corridor, the movement sharp and twitchy—rather like an nervous woodland creature. Snapping her attention back to land on her daughter, she whispered, "He's asleep, and I've tasked the elves with tidying the upper floors. You haven't much time. Hurry."_

_And then she was gone._

_Patricia stared after her mother, not daring to make a peep by calling after her. This could be a trap, or a test. Father could be trying to determine if he'd broken her 'unhealthy attachment to his subjects.'_

_Anxious, she chewed at her lower lip as considered her options. Stay here and wait for that door to close on her again, never knowing what was going on down there . . . . No, that wasn't an option, at all, actually. She had no choice but to risk the chance—she had to check on her friends._

_Approaching the door, she ignored the grisly sight of her own recent and bloody fingernail marks marring the wood. The icy tingling in her limbs made it hard to move, yet she forced herself to grip the door and pull it wider. Forced herself to peer out into the yawning dark of the corridor._

_Standing straight as she could, her heart hammered in her chest and her vision swam with the tears gathering in her eyes. She could feel her lower lip shivering and her empty stomach tie itself in knots at the thought that perhaps Father waited there in the shadows to catch her in the act of running to her vampires._

_How strange and sad that he had no idea who the real monster was, anymore._

_Terror wracking her so that she thought she might faint dead away with every step, Patricia left her room._


	76. Chapter 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter tonight, since now that I've finally gotten the free time to get some writing done, I'm so tired (it's been such a long day and it's, well, lady problems week—more than you needed to know, right? XD), that I'm not really up to writing more than a couple of paragraphs at the moment. My sincerest apologies, everyone. Thank you for your continued support and patience.

**Chapter Seventy-Six**

_She had never heard a sound as loud as the hammering of her own heartbeat against her ribcage as she scurried across the floor of the second level corridor. Her pulse was so very heavy in her ears, so distracting from her surroundings, she was sure it must be echoing through the house._

_Somehow, she made it to the top of the servants' staircase. Her limbs shook as she moved; fingers trembling and lips shivering, she wanted to stop. To wait just a few moments so that she might catch her breath and center herself. Yet, even if Mother was truly on her side, the elves might still finish up early and return to their quarters. If they caught her making her way to the oubliette, they'd be bound to report her disobedience to Father immediately._

_And if Mother wasn't on her side . . . . She couldn't think about it. Mother helping her had seemed a spark of hope—a faint, flickering light returning to her heart._

_She couldn't risk waiting. Holding in a sob that was equal parts panic and sorrow, she hurried down the steps and through the servants' quarters to the lower staircase, all but hurtling her weary form downward, not entirely certain how she was keeping herself from slipping and falling._

_Patricia stumbled as she reached the lower landing. Looking about the oubliette at her beloved vampires—there was no time or room to feel relief that Mother had been sincere, after all—she wasn't sure which of them to run to first._


	77. Chapter 77

**Chapter Seventy-Seven**

" _No, no, don't come any closer!" Hugh's voice, shivering and weak, was so low, she didn't register his words until she was near enough, her human eyes had adjusted enough to the limited illumination from the single candelabra left burning, that she could see them all more clearly._

_A gasp rattled into her lungs, her hands clamping over her mouth._

_He hung his head. The effort to draw in the breath to speak seemed to drain what little energy he had. "Please, my love. We wanted to spare you this._ This _is why we fell silent."_

_The tears spilled from her eyes as quickly as they gathered while she gaped about the dungeon walls. Yes, now she remembered . . . . She hadn't drifted to sleep when they'd still been crying out. They oubliette had gone quiet and in her own diminished state, her fear and dread over that dread lack of sound had taken what precious little was left of her strength and she'd fallen into slumber quite against her will._

_Now that she was near enough to see . . . . Clemence, Ambrose, Barnaby, Reynold . . . ._

" _You shouldn't be seeing this," Elinor murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as well from where she sat, her chains pull taut as far as they'd go so that she was huddled with an equally taut-chained Grace._

_Jerome was entirely despondent, his gaze as lacking for life as their companions as he stared at the far wall. Patricia couldn't bear to look at them again, yet she could not stop herself, either. She knew she had to see the horror. She had to bear witness to what she'd not been able to stop the monster that was her own father from doing._

_Their rib cages lay open, mangled, bones twisted and broken, the cavities empty. He'd taken their hearts. She felt her own chest grow cold as she couldn't help wondering what he'd done with the unbeating organs._

" _Co—come here," Hugh called to her._

_Patricia didn't answer. Running to him, she collapsed in his chained arms, sobbing. "What should I do?" she asked, her voice soft in his ear. "What do you want me to do?_ Please _let me help you!"_

" _You're always so sweet to us," Grace said, sniffling. She shook her head against Elinor's shoulder. "It's right you'll be the one to do this."_

_Elinor nodded, smiling sadly._

_Patricia sat up, meeting Hugh's gleaming crimson eyes in the darkness. They'd been hungry so long—ever since Father had trapped her in that accursed room—the evidence of their starvation was not even a danger to anyone, anymore._

" _What are they talking about?"_

_He leaned close, cuddling her to him and dropping a kiss on her forehead. The press of his fangs beneath his lips was somehow a comfort. "He . . . he killed the others because we refused to make him one of us."_

" _What?" She didn't want to believe what she was hearing, but she knew better. Somehow, though, it just made it more awful that Father could do this to creatures he wanted to 'join.' She didn't even need to ask when his fascination with them had turned from curious hatred to unveiled avarice—Astor Malfoy was always a man in envy of power beyond his own._

" _He will come back and finish the job, sparing only one of us."_

" _Sparing only Grace," Jerome clarified, coming out of his stupor. "He believes because she is smallest, she will be the easiest to bend to his whims."_

" _That's why it has to be you."_

" _I don't understand," Patricia said, returning her attention to Hugh. "My darling, what has to be me?"_

" _I'm going to turn you," he answered, smiling sadly as his gaze searched hers. "And then . . . you're going to kill us before he can do it."_


	78. Chapter 78

**Chapter Seventy-Eight**

_Patricia sucked in a breath, sharp and cold. "No! I—I can't do that!"_

" _We can't live with the memory of what's happened here," Elinor explained. "It's too much to carry through eternity."_

" _Why not let me free you, instead?" Patricia's voice was so filled with hope it made Grace—the youngest, barely seventeen when she'd been bitten, younger than even Patricia and Ambrose—burst out sobbing._

" _The chains are unbreakable to a human, your father would murder you himself sooner than let you get the key from him, and after you're turned, you won't be able to touch them because of the charms he put on them."_

_And, of course, part of her punishment had been the breaking of her wand._ _Patricia bit her lip, holding in a cry as she nodded. She remembered the first time she'd noticed how the manacles seared their skin at contact. How terrible it was that the flesh where the metal rested was nearly eaten away by the magic._

_There were always in pain . . . . So much pain._

" _Someone must carry on for us. It has to be you."_

_Her vision swam as she lifted her gaze to her love's, once more. "Hugh, please. This is not a burden I can bare alone!"_

" _Yes, you can. You're stronger than he lets you believe. I will turn you. And then you will grant us merciful ends. And_ then _you will flee this place, never to return."_

_Her heart shattered at the prospect of what they were asking her to do. "But . . . but you were to be my family." Elinor a motherly figure, Grace the sister she never had. Reynold hadn't quite been a doting father, but he had loved to argue about how he always knew what was best for everyone. Jerome a better brother than Octavius had ever been._

_And Hugh, her lovely, adoring Hugh. She wanted to be his bride so very much, it hadn't even mattered to her that they'd not be able to have children, or that she'd be giving up the sun._

_The first time she'd slipped down here without Father's permission—well, she never had his permission, did she?—and she'd seen Hugh, with his rich auburn hair and bright emerald eyes. Oh, she'd never been one much for whimsy—Malfoys did not entertain whimsy!—but she was struck with the notion that she loved him from the moment their gazes had met._

_She'd run straight to him as though she'd known him her entire life. No fear even knowing what he was. Still fresh in her mind was the way he chuckled warmly as his chained arms closed around her shoulders in a hug._

_His voice had been dulcet, somehow already familiar the first time he spoke to her. His lips moving against her hair, his whisper tickled her ear as he asked, "And who might you be? Some angel come to save us from this?"_

_She still remembered how she'd had to force herself out of his arms to try and undo their chains. How fruitless her efforts had been. How embarrassed she was that she broke into tears at her wasted attempt._

_How comforted she had been by the way Hugh took her back into his arms, as easily as if they'd embraced a million times before rather than just the once._

" _My love, please," Hugh said again, snapping her back into the moment, his silken voice low and rough and pleading. "You're our only chance for peace."_

" _I can't—I can't do this to you."_

_He lifted his hands, cupping her jaw in his palms gently. "There is no time to do this the easy way—"_

" _The easy way?" Her brow furrowed. Nothing of this was easy!_

" _There is a method that would have you waking immediately after with strength like mine, but that takes hours. We can't risk you being caught. I will bite you—but not like before. This time it will hurt, and I'm so sorry for that. I will nearly drain you dry, but then you will take my blood. You'll be one of us before you take our lives."_


	79. Chapter 79

**Chapter Seventy-Nine**

_The others gave their consent, assuring her this was what they wanted._

" _I don't think I go on without all of you," she answered, her voice thick with fear and sorrow._

" _We will be in your blood, with you_ always _."_

_Patricia couldn't bear the thought of losing them, but then she couldn't bear the thought of Father torturing them into making him one of them, either. And she couldn't force them to go on with the memory of watching their brothers and sister die so cruelly._

_Nodding, she swept the length of her hair back from her throat and leaned her neck close to Hugh's lips. She closed her eyes._

_He whispered how much he loved her, the tips of his fingers caressing her skin adoringly, lavishing kisses along her pulse. The intimacies they'd never get to share . . . . He considered them bitterly, permitting himself this moment—the feel of her flesh beneath his touch, the scent of her filling his senses._

_He hated to rob her of the future they might have, but he knew he could not bear to exist another day. This plan was the only chance_ she _had to survive beyond this. He had to let her go._

_He would ensure that she knew what she'd meant to him, even if_ they _could not be. Willing those thoughts into his blood—how he saw her, thought of her, the way he felt when he held her close, nearly as though his own heart still beat_ for _her—he sank his teeth into her throat._

* * *

Hermione let go of Patricia's wrist, sobs choking out of her and her eyes so full of tears she couldn't see a thing.

Lucius was openly fretting—a thing he didn't often do—as he settled on the floor beside his vampire-witch and pulled her into his lap. "Miss Granger," he said softly, dabbing the remnants of Patricia's blood from her lips with the edge of his sleeve.

She only clung to him, crying wordlessly. Everything. She'd seen _everything_. Patricia's memories of taking her would-be families' lives. The feelings her love had imbued in his own blood before offering it to her . . . .

The terror of the night her father had tracked her down. How he'd used her fear of him against her to get his way . . . . Hermione was all at once so angry she couldn't see straight, and so wounded she thought the pain Patricia Malfoy had suffered was in danger of searing her own heart from her chest.

"What did you do to her?" Lucius demanded through clenched teeth as he met his great-aunt's gaze.

Patricia frowned, her eyes sad. "I simply showed her my past. It's something I learned from my maker in the short time we had together. It was the only way either of you could understand what I've been through."

His jaw fell. "You could've simply told us."

"Yes, I suppose," she said softly, nodding. "But you might not have believed me; we can't fake the stories in our blood."

Lucius fell silent at that. His bloody fault that Miss Granger was a sobbing mess, then, wasn't it? He'd been the one to insist they didn't have grounds to trust Patricia. At the time, it had been perfectly logical, but seeing the aftermath made him wish he could go back and ask her to simply tell _them_ her story.

After a moment of watching them—as Hermione eventually calmed, her grip around Lucius' neck still tight and her head down against his shoulder, his arms locked around her waist as he held her cuddled protectively in his lap—Patricia's lips curved in a melancholic smile.

"You make me think of what Hugh and I might've been," she whispered, dabbing at the corners of her tearing mauve-grey eyes.

Lucius' brow furrowed in question, but he supposed Miss Granger would fill him in on who this 'Hugh' was—Patricia's lover? Her maker? Both?—when she felt up to talking.

"So," the blonde started, her voice soft, observational, "when does she plan on turning you?"


	80. Chapter 80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eighty . . . . Eighty. HOLY MOTHERFORKING SHIRTBALLS, eighty chapters!

**Chapter Eighty**

The question snapped Hermione back into the present. Sitting up straight, she found herself nearly nose-to-nose with Mr. Malfoy. They gaped at each other for a moment before he looked over her head, and she turned right where she sat in his lap, to stare at Patricia in open surprise.

Lucius cleared his throat—a sound more awkward than Hermione thought he was physically capable of uttering—and gave his trademark languid shrug. "Not that it's the business of anyone aside from Miss Granger and myself, but we haven't discussed that, yet."

Patricia's forehead lined, her instant confusion plainly visible.

Hermione offered an expression that was part gentle smile, part wince, aware her reluctance to remove herself from Lucius' person probably wasn't helping with what they were trying to explain. "I know we seem . . . _close_ , but we've only been, um, together like this for a short time. I've been a vampire longer than Mr. Malfoy and I have been 'courting,' and I know your sense of time is a bit, shall we say, faulty? But that's only been a few days."

"A few . . . ." Patricia's echo trailed off. Looking from her great-nephew to the young woman in his lap and back, she felt her cheeks flood with warmth at the implication. "Oh. Things truly _have_ changed over the last three hundred years, haven't they?"

Lucius' brows shot up and he puffed out his cheeks while Hermione nodded, snorting a laugh.

Hermione understood the other vampire-witch's distress. It had all been there in her blood. Another in her situation might feel envy, or even anger at witnessing others having a happiness life had denied her, but not Patricia. Hermione's heart nearly broke all over again as she considered the innocence of the young woman's thoughts.

She cherished happiness because it had been stolen from her, and so the joy of others was important to her. So many people lacked that sort of generosity, finding it easier to take away anything they, themselves, could not have.

The stinging in the tip of her nose reminded Hermione rather suddenly that she'd been crying—well, that was a kind way to put it, she'd sobbed like a baby. Her hands clamping over her cheeks, she turned her head to meet Mr. Malfoy's gaze.

"I'm a bloody mess, aren't I?"

A twitchy little half-grin plucked at his mouth. "I assume you're asking in a literal sense?"

She dropped her head against his shoulder and uttered a groan. "I should go get cleaned up, then."

As seemed to be forming into a habit for him, Lucius stood with her in his arms and then set her on her feet. They both ignored the way Patricia smiled at the gesture—to describe it as anything less than _beaming_ would do the exuberantly bright expression an injustice.

"I'll . . accompany you," he said, managing to sound dignified even when his words were stilted.

"Wait." Hermione nodded in Patricia's direction. Poor thing finally had her wits about her in who knew how long? Letting her sit by herself for, well—if they were honest about what was probably to going happen once they were by themselves upstairs—more than a few minutes seemed a bit cruel. "We can't just leave her here alone."

Mr. Malfoy opened his mouth to ask the logical question, but Hermione was already answering—since it was logical and all, she guessed what it would be—before he could get out the first word. "I've an idea!"

* * *

Seated in the center of the living room sofa, Patricia stared wide-eyed at the television screen. Hermione flipped channels until she reached an educational network. Handing over the clicker, she showed Patricia how to use it and then left her to her wonder.

As Hermione and Mr. Malfoy headed up the stairs, they could hear Patricia in one breath marveling over the contraption and in the next, deriding it for a being a 'wand that affected only _one_ item!'


	81. Chapter 81

**Chapter Eighty-One**

It was fair to say Hermione wasn't sure what had gotten into them the last few days. Not that she was complaining about how close he stood behind her as she washed her face in the bathroom sink. Nor did she mind his arms circling her to undress her while she rinsed the soap from her skin.

She simply understood it was unlikely either of them'd been so constantly and easily aroused before this. Well, at least she could speak for herself—she enjoyed sex as much as the next woman, but she could recall someone with whom it'd been _this_ active of a part of their dynamic. For all anyone knew, maybe Narcissa Malfoy had seemed snobbish because Lucius left her so worn out she hadn't energy left for politeness.

Maybe it was the stress of the situation, a small voice considered in the back of her head as she watched him in the mirror. Maybe it was something about taking his blood—a level of intimacy that went beyond fucking—the voice went on while he opened his robes and peeled the fabric back from his shoulders.

Lucius' hands moved over her, the touch of his fingers across her skin teasing and hungry. She followed his guidance as he lifted her leg, propping her knee on the edge of the sink's basin.

Hermione grabbed at his wrist, tugging his arm. He proved just as eager, just as pliable, letting her drag his fingers between her thighs.

He breathed out a low chuckle, stroking her as he lowered his head, bringing his lips to the side of her throat. The feel of her reaching between them to wrap curious, playful fingers around his cock made him bite down.

Watching her reflection, he noted how her mouth dropped open and her eyelids fluttered. The sight of her arm moving behind her in the mirror as she worked her fist over him only added to what she was doing.

Slick against his rubbing fingertips, body trembling in his hold, she waited.

Winding the fingers of his free hand into her hair, he gripped tight the locks at the back of her head. She let out a pleading whimper at the oddly satisfying sensation, permitting him to tip her head as he drew his mouth higher along her skin, catching her earlobe between his teeth.

The feel of him pulsing and shivering in her fingers, the texture of his skin so smooth and warm beneath hers, was intoxicating. The way he started rocking his pelvis to compliment the pumping of her fist was a pleasant surprise.

She almost had what she wanted. Almost.

Relinquishing her hold on his wrist, she trailed her fingers up along his arm. Across his shoulder and to his neck. Finding her bite mark through touch, she scraped her nails over it.

He drew in a gasp. _There_ it was.

Letting her lobe slide from between his teeth, he whispered breathlessly against the wet skin, " _Please_ , Miss Granger."

Smirking wickedly at their reflection, she arched her back, lifting herself for him. Never quite braced enough for his entry, a tremor shook her and a moan tore from her throat as he sank into her.

"Oh, God," she exhaled the words, her voice no louder than his and he felt her limbs already tensing. "Too much teasing this time, I think."

He snickered, rocking into her and withdrawing again and again. She wasn't wrong, her body was already clenching around his thrusts and he could see her sweetly agonized expression in the mirror.

Lucius bit her throat again and she barely held herself back from screaming. The fingers between her thighs pressed harder as they worked her and she dropped her head back against his shoulder, a sobbing breath escaping her lips as she came.

He permitted himself release only when her body gave into a violent shiver. Hips stilling against her sudden frenzied rocking, he spent himself as her orgasm ebbed.

When it faded, Hermione leaned into him. She enjoyed the rise and fall of his chest against her back while he caught his breath in soft, ragged gulps.


	82. Chapter 82

**Chapter Eighty-Two**

"I think," she said softly, her voice mingling with his steadying breaths, "we need to talk about how often we have sex."

Meeting her gaze in the mirror, he laughed despite that he was unsurprised—he'd been curious about the same thing, after all. "Find it problematic, do you?"

She couldn't help but answer with a laugh of her own. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to get dressed, and he clasped his hands in front of her, holding her to him. God, this felt nice, the sensation of his warm skin cradling hers. Not _as_ nice as him shagging her brains out, but a close second, for sure.

"Problematic? Not in the least," she said, sparing a moment to emphasize her point by letting out a content sigh. "Excessive? _Maybe."_

His brows drew upward as he counted back."This would make it . . . five times since last night? If we're counting the shower."

"Of _course_ we're counting the shower." Well, sure, it hadn't been intercourse that time, but the way they'd used their mouths on each other would certainly count as sex from _anyone's_ perspective, she was sure. "Although, it could be argued that it was closer to early this morning more than last night."

"Call it 'within twenty-four hours?'"

She nodded. "Better."

Hermione wondered how late, or perhaps how early, it was now. Time had lost meaning since she'd been bitten, whittled down to when the sun was up, and when she could move about without fear of being rendered helpless by its rays.

"We could try to hold back if you've issue with the frequency."

She turned in his arms, immediately aware of how the change in position pressed her pelvis to his and not minding one bit. "Have you gone mad?"

One corner of his mouth twitching, he only held her gaze.

"Do I actually have to say the words?"

Still, he remained silent.

Dropping back her head, she uttered a groan before meeting his gaze, once more. "No, frequency isn't a problem. I just . . . I don't remember anyone with whom I've been this _frequent_ previously and I'm wondering if it might be cause for alarm. Unless your sex drive was always this formidable and I simply had no reason to know before."

His raised brows pinched together as a surprised chuckle sputtered out of him. "My se—as in 'Lucius Malfoy's libido is the best kept secret in Wizarding Britain?'" She laughed hearing it that way and he went on, "I assure you, this . . . abundance of sexual activity is new to me, as well."

She mirrored his expression, her raised brows furrowing. " _Sooooo_ . . . . Your ex-wife wasn't so chilly to everyone because she was perhaps too focused on walking steadily on rubbery knees to really have anything to spare for bare-minimum social niceties, like, smiling, for example?"

Lucius' face fell as he stared at her. _Okay_ , she barely refrained from wincing, _maybe we're not yet at a place where he can speak lightly of his ex-wife_.

Hermione jumped when he barked out a rich laugh. As she listened to the mirthful sound, she realized his pause was him repeating her question in his head, ensuring he'd heard her correctly, before deciding an appropriate response.

Sobering, he unleashed a wistful sigh and then answered, "No, no. Chilly would be a fitting description in regard to more than just social niceties."

When her brows shot up once again, he smiled graciously. "It wasn't as awful as I'm making it sound. Our sex life was . . . decently healthy, she simply wasn't very affectionate otherwise." He tacked on with a shrug, "Then again, I suppose neither was I."

Hermione watched his face. She hoped it wasn't hurting him, to think of his ex-wife now, when he seemed—at least to her, and she dearly prayed she wasn't imagining things—happy with someone new. "I wonder if you're so different with me because I've had your blood?"

"It's possible that might foster something more . . . reactive," he murmured in consideration.


	83. Chapter 83

**Chapter Eighty-Three**

They hadn't moved, still holding each other naked in her bathroom, which for some reason felt wholly natural. She recalled Patricia's memories. How going to Hugh was so natural for her.

How she and Mr. Malfoy had developed a knack for reading each other so easily. How Hugh and Patricia might've had the same if only they'd had the freedom.

Her gaze brightening, she wondered aloud, "What if the 'condition' Astor mentioned wasn't addiction?"

Lucius tipped his head to one side. "I don't follow."

Hermione shrugged. "What if it's a pull of a different sort? If, for whatever reason, there's some kind of natural kinship between your bloodline and vampires?"

Puzzlement filled his gaze. "What _did_ you see in her blood?"

She asked in a whisper loaded with feigned curiosity, "Now how d'you figure that's where my mind went?"

"Logical assumption."

"Really? Because it could've been just as logical to assume my question resulted from the conversation's trajectory, combined with Astor's notes." She shrugged again. "I was thinking perhaps it's a bond that puts one on the same wavelength as their, for lack of a better term, _mate_."

Slipping his arms from her, he backpedaled a step. Hermione didn't try to stop him, clearly he needed a think, and trying to sort his thoughts while holding her naked form to his was causing him issue with that purpose.

She also wasn't going to argue over the view presented her as he pivoted on his heel, facing away from her. From his change in posture, she could tell he'd folded his arms across his chest, a fist pressed to his mouth as he considered her theory.

Of course, as he turned all this over in his mind, she found her head tipping slightly. Her gaze traced over him, from the top of his head to his heels and back up. It was a slow progression upward, her pale cheeks flushing a bit as she registered the fact that every time she'd seen Lucius Malfoy, _this_ had been hiding under his robes.

Suddenly that leather set he'd worn during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries seemed scandalous in the most heavenly way possible.

As her attention reached his torso, she realized she was no longer admiring his . . . assets unobserved. The lines of muscle at the backs of his hips curved and she knew as she followed the rest of him upward that he'd turned slightly in her direction. Just enough to see her clearly without facing her.

"Miss Granger?" he said, hiding a smug grin as he caught her gaze.

"I'm . . . ." His vampire-witch gave her head a shake, her red-brown eyes impossibly wide in a wasted show of feigned innocence. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"I hadn't said anything at all." He made a spinning gesture with one hand. "Shall I turn back 'round so you can return to ogling me?"

Her blush deepened so that he suddenly worried for her body's current supply of blood. "No, no," she said, hurried and hushed. "I just, um . . . ." She clasped her hands together. "You know what? I just need to do something."

Lucius wasn't quite certain to do with the fact that the thing she 'needed to do' was cup his buttocks. Her palms pressed firmly, she tensed splayed fingers under the curve and then . . . . Good Lord. The young woman was massaging his arse!

Although it was rather pleasant, he couldn't help laughing. He could honestly say this was a thing that had never happened to him before.

Newness aside, if she kept this up, they might never leave this bathroom. "Miss Granger?"

"Right, . . . that's all, I'm good." She cleared her throat, dropping her hands from him. "We should fix you something to eat. And then sleep. Sun'll be up soon, Patricia can stay in the guest room. We'll discuss theories after some rest."

She headed for the door, much to Lucius' shock.

"Um, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swung back around. "Hmm?"

Smirking, he gestured, indicating her state of undress.

"Oh, right." She tore her gaze from his—beside herself with embarrassment that she'd been so distracted by his bum she'd literally forgotten she was naked—and started pulling on her clothes.


	84. Chapter 84

**Chapter Eighty-Four**

Mr. Malfoy was unimpressed with the . . . culinary options presented him from an icebox in Miss Granger's pantry. Some nonsense about how her parents keeping it stocked for whenever she might visit.

A deep frown carved his face as he picked through boxes of frozen items, through canned vegetables and what looked like some type of noodles in red sauce. He'd had the cuisine when he'd traveled to Italy a few times in his life, but he could not recall anything called _Beefaroni_.

Patricia seemed wholly oblivious to the reason behind Hermione's aversion to 'human food'—though she ignored how Lucius sneered as he questioned whether something that slid from a metal can whilst making such disconcerting sounds and could be heated mere minutes with the push of a button could really _be_ considered food for any living creature. At least the labeled cooking directions were simple enough to follow so he didn't wholly destroy the already dubiously-edible concoction he'd unleashed.

Until her great-nephew sat across from her at the table with his questionable meal and a cup of 'passable' tea. The moment the scent hit her, she was up and across the kitchen beside the other vampire-witch.

He not thrilled with this reaction, not because he liked the idea of someone battling nausea just to keep him company, but because he didn't have the luxury to walk away from the nutrients the questionable meal would provide.

"Oh, I'm so stupid! I'll be right back!"

By the time Lucius looked up, only Patricia lingered in the doorway as he sat alone at the small table. Finding herself the focus of his attention, she darted her gaze over each shoulder in turn—presumably hoping he was looking at something behind her—before facing him with lifted brows.

"Of bloody course." He sighed, shaking his head as he lifted a brave forkful of whatever-this-was-supposed-to-be.

Giving a determined nod, he took the first bite.

Patricia watched wide-eyed, as one might observe an exotic animal on safari. "How is it?" she asked only after he'd swallowed and lifted another forkful.

He offered his plate a terrifying scowl. "Not as awful as I'd feared." His gaze shot from his food to meet her eyes and she gave a little jump, but he seemed to recognize the effect of the dreaded Malfoy Scowl on its target and immediately softened his expression, but only by a hair. Only enough that she knew he was not truly angry—and that even if he were, it was not at her. "Do _not_ tell Miss Granger."

Patricia's entire face brightened at his conspiratorial tone. With a soft giggle, she shook her head, pressing her fingertips over her mouth.

Hermione came back downstairs, moving at regular human speed. Entering the kitchen with a clear, stout plastic bottle in hand, she paused, looking from one Malfoy to the other, and back.

"What?" she asked, arching a brow.

Lucius dutifully—complete with a grimace for show—kept on eating. Patricia shrugged as she answered, "He was commenting on the awfulness of the food."

Lucius noted Miss Granger turning narrowed eyes on him. Patricia had been entirely truthful without disclosing what he'd actually said. Interesting, she possessed the Malfoy wit, after all.

Once more Hermione glanced between them before placing the bottle on the table. She stood at the farthest space away from his plate, nudging the plastic so it slid across the surface to him.

Mr. Malfoy picked it up in his free hand and read the label. "Multivitamins?"

"My mother," she answered with a shrug. "She bought them for me and I always forget, so they're unopened. It's how Muggles get minerals not provided by their food."

So . . . seconds after he'd considered the necessity of choking down this not-wholly-awful gruel for its nutrients without a word as to what he was thinking, she went to get him this. He set down his fork and carefully opened it—ignoring her very evident stifled laughter as he struggled with what the label described as a 'childproof cap.'


	85. Chapter 85

**Chapter Eighty-Five**

Neither Hermione nor Lucius could say they were very surprised when, after escorting Patricia to the guest room and securing heavy blankets over necessary windows, they got up to 'other things' before actually falling asleep. She was sure if she weren't already dead, this effect their situation was having on their sex drives would certainly do the job.

But, eventually they did both fall asleep. Hermione thought she even started to dream once or twice—though she could not hold onto the fleeting images long enough afterward to be certain—only to finally be woken by an alarmed thrill zipping through her that someone stood nearby.

Her eyes snapped open, locking on a figure standing beside the bed. Sooner she could stop herself or think clearly, her predatory instincts kicked in. A feral sound tore from her throat and she bared her teeth.

Lucius was awake in a flash. He snatched up his wand from the bedside table and sat bolt upright, using his free arm to wrangle Miss Granger behind him.

Only . . . the vampire-witch's aggressive sound, combined with his defensive posturing, seemed to startle their onlooker, and she a burst into a series of high-pitched cries.

Lucius let out a groan as he dropped his wand arm to the bed. Hermione scrambled out from behind him. For a split-second, she had the presence of mind to be relieved that she and Mr. Malfoy were decently attired.

Catching a panicked Patricia's wrists in her hands, Hermione held gently. She spoke clearly and gently, waiting for the blonde to open her eyes—which she would assume had naturally squeezed shut whilst screaming—her words just barely heard over the shrieking. "Patricia, please! It's okay, you're safe! You simply caught us off-guard."

Falling quiet, Patricia opened her eyes cautiously. She looked at Hermione and then Lucius. "I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Refraining from any further grumbling, Lucius pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and set his feet on the floor. "What are you doing in here?" He dearly hoped her answer wouldn't be anything like Miss Granger's when he'd found her in his bedroom that first night.

She shrugged. "I woke when I felt the sun set and came to find you two, but when I got close to the bed, you and your Miss Granger awoke and frightened me!"

"Sorry." Hermione sighed, relinquishing her hold on the other young woman's arms. She would leave off the mention that Patricia's unannounced appearance had frightened _them_ first.

"You wanted to talk after we all rested, and, well, we _are_ all rested now," Patricia prompted with a shrug.

"Right, of course. Give us a moment and we'll join you down in the living room."

Nodding, Patricia offered an apologetic smile before she turned and walked out the door.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione said when she was certain the other vampire-witch had gone far enough through the house so as to not easily overhear, her voice soft but concerned.

"Miss Granger," he responded, "you're worried because she's so docile, aren't you?"

She swallowed hard and nodded, her heart aching for Patricia Malfoy. "It's like she has no survival instincts whatsoever."

Anger filled his slate eyes for a moment as he nodded. "Rather certain this was her father's doing, somehow."

Hermione slipped her hand into his, holding firm as they started from the room. They did not yet have a plan for it, but she was looking forward to helping Patricia murder the bastard. Even so, Hermione couldn't help but worry what would become of Patricia if things didn't go well and she were left on her own.


	86. Chapter 86

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this I said daily updates during isolation/quarantine & that after quarantine ended, the fic would continue & run to completion, but perhaps not update daily anymore. That's not changing yet, but I thought I'd advise you all that New York entered Phase 1 of Reopening this week. Phase 1 is expected to take 2 weeks (at least [it's sort of 'let's try it & see how it goes']) and then there's still 2 thru 4 to get through. SO while I am continuing this fic on its daily schedule through the end of quarantine (and now that I've got a rough idea of when that will be and know this story needs to last at least that long, I've got a heck of a twist planned for when I officially know I can draw the story to a close ;) ), I just wanted to give you all a heads up that an end is in sight.
> 
> The ending is planned, how the heck we get there is not, so the 'intentionally ridiculous' in the title still applies.

**Chapter Eighty-Six**

"What did you want to talk about?" Patricia asked from the same spot on the sofa where Hermione'd placed her when introducing her to the telly. If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd think the blonde was eager to get back to investigating what more might be discovered on the screen.

Lucius rejoined them after grudgingly making himself some breakfast. He was considerate enough to finish his food and coffee in the kitchen before joining them.

God, she missed coffee! She was also trying to ignore that she enjoyed a great deal the image they must present as Lucius placed himself—even his lazy perching was dignified, how _did_ he manage?—on the arm of the chair in which Hermione sat, one of his long arms draped over the back.

"Well," the brunette began, collecting her thoughts, "I wanted to ask you about your relationship with Hugh, if that's all right?"

Patricia's entire countenance brightened at the very mention of her love's name. "Of course."

Hermione wanted to curl in on herself at that brightness. She wanted to hide away from it in the dark because it hurt so much to witness. Patricia knew he was gone—literally knew it in her blood—and yet the thought of speaking on him brought her such joy.

Swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat, Hermione blinked back unexpected tears. She forced herself to ask as Mr. Malfoy lowered his arm to circle his palm over her back, gentle and soothing. "I saw when you first met. I watched the way you ran straight to him. You didn't even know his name."

Patricia listened, her brows shooting upward when the other vampire-witch finished. "What is it you're asking?"

"Oh." Hermione let out a soft, abashed laugh. "Sorry, I meant to ask why? What were you feeling when you saw him that you knew he'd accept you? That you knew he was safe, despite what he was?"

Shrugging, Patricia's perfect lips pulled to one side in consideration. "I don't recall thinking anything strange in it. It was just . . . natural. From the moment I saw him, I _knew_ his arms were where I belonged. Like Grace and Elinor? Though they were turned, already, when they met. They were in the memories, too, yes?"

Yes. She remembered, the strain to hold each other, the drive to offer one another comfort even as the shackles pulled their arms into unnatural angles and the magic bit into their seared flesh harsher, still.

Once more blinking her eyes clear, Hermione nodded.

"But why?" Lucius couldn't hold back the question. If this were a . . . familial trait, he needed to know. Neither Grace nor Elinor were Malfoys, but it stood to reason _vampire_ mates might _recognize_ each other so easily. Yet, he was still breathing, just as Patricia had still been breathing when she's first met Hugh. So why them?

"Why what?" Patricia asked, clearly lacking the ability to get flustered.

"Why did _we_ —you with Hugh, myself with Miss Granger—as humans, respond to them as we have?"

She looked at him blankly, surprise in her mauve-grey eyes. "You don't know about your own blood?"

Hermione was painfully cognizant of that gentle circling against her back halting. If she still breathed, she knew already she'd be holding the air in her lungs as she waited to hear what would follow.

"Know _what_ about my own blood?" Lucius spat back the question as a retort—it seemed perfectly obvious he _didn't_.

"My grandmother, Allyria Burke . . . . She was bitten, too."

Hermione and Lucius exchanged a confused glance. "This sort of vampirism isn't hereditary," Hermione reminded delicately, "we're dead. No babies." She put aside that she hadn't even considered the option had been stolen from her.

This wasn't the time to consider might've-been's.

"I know well, thank you." What should've been a snide comment fell from Patricia's lips serenely. "I meant her husband, Bartholomew."

Lucius leaned forward a little. "What of Bartholomew?"

She shrugged, as if this were information known to all Malfoys at one time—oh, wait, she'd just insinuated that it was. "He drank of her blood, adding it forever to his own, and that of _any_ progeny of the Malfoy line."


	87. Chapter 87

**Chapter Eighty-Seven**

He forced his dead lungs to inhale, deep and long. Exhaling miserably, Astor Malfoy held in a growl. He wanted to kick himself that he'd not made the connection sooner, but he'd never caught the scent of the Manor after he'd been turned, so he'd had no frame of reference.

After having forced himself back underground when his search had revealed the guilty parties had likely Disapparated, he'd waited out the sunlit hours in a sleep that was angry. Not at all restful, but determination to get back what was his fueled him now, anyway.

However, it had cleared his head a bit. The reinforcement of that wizard's scent from the other night made it clearer. Easier to recognize, perhaps even to follow if he encountered it again. And encounter it he did, strolling along the streets of Wizarding London.

Standing now at the twisting wrought iron gates, the grand house in view, he sniffed at the air once more. Patricia hadn't been here, but the human males he'd detected—his own bloody descendants, unless he was sorely mistaken and the estate had changed hands, somehow—had been. _His_ female had been.

Perhaps they'd gone elsewhere and simply not returned to the manor, yet. Though what they could want or need of that useless child of his was beyond him. Maybe something in the house would give him some idea what they were up to.

Or they'd return while he was there and it would make for a deliciously violent reunion.

Arching a brow, he started down Malfoy Manor's long walk. Maybe it would feel good to be home again, after all.


	88. Chapter 88

**Chapter Eighty-Eight**

Hermione and Patricia sat, both watching the kitchen doorway. Lucius had not exactly handled the revelation well. He'd shot up from his perch on the arm of Hermione's chair and stalked from the room.

If the look on his face hadn't been so frightful, Hermione might've been reminded of how he'd abruptly turned away during their discussion in the bathroom. While she considered that a bum massage might be _precisely_ what he needed right now, she doubted he was in any mood to let her get close enough to try.

Inhaling so she could let out a sigh, she returned her attention to Patricia. "All your family knew this when you were still alive?"

The blonde nodded. "No one outside the family did, of course. It made our magic stronger. Made Dark magic more natural for us to handle."

Hermione felt like she'd just been handed a secret of the ages. No wonder the Malfoys held themselves in such high regard, assuming they were meant for some sort of lofty, imaginary greatness. Being naturally adept at Dark magic? Being naturally stronger _in_ magic? With the knowledge of their blood barred from them, yet left with the awareness of their inherent talent, they never stood a chance of believing otherwise.

"And . . . you and Hugh—" She averted her gaze as she said the name, unable to bear that brightness she knew would enter Patricia's gaze at the mention. "Did you sometimes feel you could tell what was on his mind? Not specific things, but feelings? Impressions?"

Patricia nodded, shrugging. "Sometimes it wasn't helpful at all. He was so often in agony that there was nothing else." A small smile curved her lips. "Though sometimes, he would focus past that . . . when I was kept away from him. He'd reach out to let me feel how he missed me."

Hermione swallowed hard, nodding. Did this woman not comprehend how heartbreaking her story was?

Lifting her head, Hermione cleared her throat. "Um, I think . . . I'm going to check on Mr. Malfoy. Do you mind entertaining yourself for a little while?"

Her attention landing on the remote, Patricia's pale eyes lit up. "Not at all."

Standing as the other vampire-witch reached for the device, Hermione headed for the kitchen.

She found him at the window. One of his arms braced against the sill over his head, he stared out into the darkness.

An urge to go to him, to wind her arms around him and simply hold him overwhelmed her. After a few steps, she managed to beat back the inclination. He might not welcome a show of affection just now, no matter how well intended.

"I feel as though I should've known, somehow," he said in a miserable whisper.

Her shoulders slumped. She pulled one of the chairs away from the kitchen table and sat. She opened her mouth to answer but got a sudden sense he was not looking for consolation.

Hermione snapped her lips together, waiting for him to go on.

"I know, logically, there was no way I could've, but I can't help how I feel. Things I noticed since this began, I understand they only stood out to me because of what we were learning about you, but it doesn't make me feel any less . . . blindsided."

"What are you talking about?"

With a sigh, Lucius let his forehead drop down against the icy glass. He explained to her what he'd realized about the design of his ancestral home.

She rolled her eyes at herself. "Easy shielding from daylight because of her grandmother Allyria. Her husband probably had windows filled in to protect her."

"Or," Mr. Malfoy said, lifelessly, "so she could pretend to live a normal life. With no sunlight to render her unconscious during the day, she'd could have played at still being human."

Hermione nodded. "For the sake of their son, Astor."

He stood straight, whirling to face her.

"What?"

"If Allyria Burke . . . Malfoy, _was_ a vampire—"

Hermione picked up on his startled thought, concluding for him, "she might still be alive."


	89. Chapter 89

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so if there's ever something that isn't clear in the story, please bring it to my attention. While, yes, there might be a valid plot-related reason said thing is currently unclear, due to the story's [mostly] unplanned nature, it's just as likely that I thought I'd included information but didn't because my mind glossed over it. So, please, if something doesn't seem to make sense, let me know and you just might find the answer in the next chapter You'd be helping both of us, really, as it might help give me something to work with on days when I've got no creative fuel.

**Chapter Eight-Nine**

Patricia's brows shot up, the couple's question effectively distracting her from the play on the screen. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Did your father ever mention what became of his mother?" Hermione repeated, hopeful. She wasn't necessarily hopeful that Allyria was dead _or_ alive, so much as hopeful or any answer at all. It had occurred to them it might've been jealousy over his mother's condition that fueled Astor's eventual obsession with becoming a vampire.

Her mauve-grey eyes lowering for a moment, they snapped back up almost immediately. She shook her head as the corners of her mouth tugged downward in confusion. "Which one?"

"Wha . . . ?" Hermione breathed out the half-asked one word question.

She didn't have to see Mr. Malfoy to know his face had fallen in bewilderment. Regardless, she looked up to find him turning in that same second to meet her gaze.

"Which one, what?" Lucius asked as he tore his attention from Miss Granger to gape at his great-aunt.

Patricia shrugged, uncertain why they didn't understand the question. "Which mother?"

His brows shot up and his head tipped to one side just a bit. "I'm sorry?" he said in a light tone that held a veiled load of shock.

"I asked 'which mother'?"

Hermione didn't know what to make of this question-for-question discussion. Holding up a hand, she tried to sort her own thoughts. Certainly having more than one parent of the same gender was commonplace for modern Muggles, but the idea seemed out of place when fitted against pure-bloods of the late seventeenth century.

"How many mothers did he have?"

"Two."

Suddenly, Hermione understood. Of course. How else would the vampire blood have been passed down through the family line if Allyria had already been turned when her still-human husband drank from her?

"The one who bore him and the one who raised him," she said, her voice airy, devoid of volume.

Patricia nodded.

"Then who the bloody hell was his 'real' mother?" Lucius exploded, unable to contain himself.

Hermione placed a hand over Mr. Malfoy's, settling him a little. She recognized the look in Patricia's eyes—the blonde was grappling to understand how Allyria wasn't Astor's 'real' mother when she'd raised him. "What he means to ask is who was it that gave birth to him? How did all of that come about?"

"Oh." Nodding again, Patricia frowned in thought. "Allyria was young when she was bitten, not much older than me, in fact. My mother told me the story after father started to get a bit . . . unhinged over his _revolting_ experiments. In the strictest confidence, of course, she wasn't even supposed to know, but Mother is long-gone now, and well, it's not proper that you know so little of your own family history," she informed Lucius, as though the revelations were a kindness.

He said nothing in response, his expression withering.

"Allyria was heartbroken when she realized she could never have children. And so they . . . brought in a woman to have a child for them. Bartholomew, well . . . ." She paused, blushing a little. "He bedded her until she became with child. After the baby was born, the woman was sent off again, with enough recompense that she and any future family she might have would want for nothing."

"And who was this mysterious woman, running around England having babies for people and then vanishing again?"

Hermione's brows pinched together as she watched Lucius' face. In his exasperation, he didn't realize quite how ridiculous he was sounding.

Patricia shrugged. "I have no idea. As far as I know, she was simply some Muggle woman."

Her eyes shooting wide, Hermione's attention snapped back to Mr. Malfoy.

His hand dramatically clutched over his heart, he echoed in a rasping whisper, "A _Muggle_?!"


	90. Chapter 90

**Chapter Ninety**

Patricia appeared genuinely startled by his reaction. Hermione was alarmed . . . for a few seconds. However, watching him hobble over to the nearest chair and drop himself into it like dead weight—he wasn't drained of color, he was breathing fine, aside from his painfully evident shock, he looked _perfectly_ healthy—as if this revelation had suddenly aged him by thirty years and he no longer possessed the strength to hold himself standing upright.

He shook his head, his grey eyes staring blankly at the wall. "A Muggle," he repeated in a hissing, barely audible whisper.

She wanted to be sympathetic toward his broken pride, but she simply couldn't bring herself to it. After all, she was a _Muggle-_ born, did he suddenly wish these last few days between them hadn't happened? Because last she remembered, despite his past he'd not made a single broody, melodramatic peep about the fact that he was shagging a Muggle-born witch.

Stalking across her _very Muggle_ living room to stand over him, she folded her arms beneath her breasts, unable to help a glare. "Honestly, Mr. Malfoy! Pull yourself together. Did you stop for even a second to consider how hurtful _I_ might find your over-the-top reaction? I was _born_ a Muggle, if you'll recall."

He managed to drag his inattentive gaze from the wall to her face. Lucius could not say she was wrong for feeling wounded by his response. She probably thought they were past all of this sort of superficial, judgmental rubbish. And they _were_ , honestly, it was simply . . . hmm . . . . How could he explain it so she might understand, since clearly their newfound connection wasn't doing him any favors in this, as likely all she was picking up from him was surprise and bewilderment.

Taking a few deep breaths, he braced his elbows on the chair's armrests and pulled himself to sit up properly. He smoothed his hands through his hair and met her eyes. "Miss Granger," he started, his voice calm, cadence measured, "imagine if you woke up tomorrow and learned that, say, your parents had been memory-charmed pure-bloods hiding under glamour enchantments your entire life?"

The brunette vampire-witch stood a bit straighter even as a slightly forced little laugh fell from her lips. "That's ridiculous on the face of it." Patricia, meanwhile, watched their exchange in silent, rapt attention.

In an uncommonly delicate and understanding gesture, Lucius reached out, capturing one of her hands between both of his—they seemed enormous in comparison. "Indulge me. For just a moment, imagine it."

Hermione very much wanted to roll her eyes. She very much wanted to _not_ indulge this madness, because considering his scenario _was_ most certainly madness. And yet, staring back at him, she couldn't help but do as he was pleading of her.

Her brows inched upward and her face fell. "I'd . . . a pure-blood? Me? Oh . . . _no_."

Nodding in understanding, he used his hands on hers to pull her to him and settled her on his lap as the consideration, alone, left her dumbstruck. And yet, he couldn't fault her for being upset at the pretended notion of suddenly finding herself a pure-blood.

Lifting her face to meet his gaze again, she nodded. "I see," she said, swallowing hard. "I suppose even the most accepting person can be in for a shock were they to learn something like that about themselves."

His grey eyes narrowed. "And this 'most accepting person' is _you_?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes right back at him. "Compared to some." An idea hit her and her shoulders slumped. "Oh."

"What?" Having her empathy had calmed him a bit, helping Lucius collect himself. He wasn't certain what more could be troubling her . . . about _this_ specific revelation, that is, since there was so very much in their overall situation that should trouble them all a great deal.

Pursing her lips a moment, she spoke as though the words were a little painful. "What's Draco going to think about this?"

Lucius winced as he thought on that, understanding her tone now.


	91. Chapter 91

**Chapter Ninety-One**

"I've no idea what became of Allyria," Patricia said once they were back on topic. Her voice was soft, but a bit sad. "I never met her. They said she died of some . . . illness or another before Octavius and I were born."

"And, I guess when your mother told you about her, you learned otherwise?" Hermione held back a wince at the obviousness of the question.

Nodding, the blonde toyed idly with the remote clutched between her delicate hands. "When Father was still a young man, prior to marrying my mother, it began to become obvious that Allyria wasn't aging. At first they tried subterfuge. Never let her leave the manor, except perhaps to the gardens at night. She took to wearing veils. Rumor spread that Lady Malfoy had taken ill. Grandfather realized the only way to protect her from anyone discovering what she was . . . was to let her go. To let the rumors seem true. So, visitors to the house were told she was resting in hushed tones, so it appeared a secret, and nothing fuels speculation quite like a secret."

"You Malfoys have _always_ been a clever lot, I see," Hermione said, thoughtful.

Lucius arched a brow. "Was that a compliment?"

Hermione dragged her gaze from Patricia's face to look at Mr. Malfoy. "Would you take that statement any other way?"

"I would not," he answered, the words quick, clipped.

Smirking, his vampire-witch returned her attention to Patricia. She was watching their interaction with a small, pleased smile on her lips. It warmed Hermione to see the open approval of their relationship from one of his literal ancestors. Not a snarky portrait hanging on the manor walls, but a still-living—in a manner of speaking—person, who did not seem to care one whit that her great-nephew was 'courting' a Muggle-born. Maybe it was simple, something to do with the awareness that her biological grandmother was a Muggle, but maybe it wasn't so simple.

Hermione stuffed down her curiosity about this point, deciding when _this_ was all settled, she would do a little research into Muggle-Wizard relations prior to the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy.

"Sorry." She offered an apologetic smile. "Go on. After the rumors and speculation, what then?"

"They staged a funeral. There was, of course, a lot that built up to it. Stories passed along to friends and Ministry associates about how the poor turn of her health was weighing so much on their minds. How they didn't expect her to last much longer, 'the poor dear.' And then, one day, they told everyone she'd passed in her sleep. 'A blessing, really,' they said."

"What about the Healers?" Lucius asked, wildly curious about his family's conspiracy now. "To keep up appearances they'd _have_ to have entertained at least the show of attempted medicinal magics."

"One of Grandfather's cousins had a bit of a problem . . . . He was a Healer who liked to wager . . . _and_ drink. Heavily. The gambling was a secret, the drinking was not. The time he spent at the Manor was, publicly, serving the two-fold purpose of breaking his need for the bottle and giving him free reign to treat Allyria as needed. Of course, all he was doing was accepting Grandfather's payment of his debts and assuring the Wizarding public that while Allyria's mysterious illness was not contagious, his best efforts were falling short. She was incurable, all they could do was make her comfortable."

Patricia appeared in deep thought as she went on. "They claimed she was so far from her former loveliness that no one could see the body. She would've hated anyone to see her so diminished, they said. She knew she could not stay. She could not risk being seen by anyone the family might know, and the family knew _everyone._ And so, once her casket was in the ground, Allyria left England."

"To go where?"

Lucius' question drew Patricia's attention. She shrugged. "No one ever said. I think no one ever knew because _she_ didn't tell them.'"


	92. Chapter 92

**Chapter Ninety-Two**

After supplying Patricia with another magically-created serving of blood—after her long starvation, she seemed to require more than Hermione—Lucius found Hermione on the back porch. There was no way Astor would find them here before they were ready to meet him, yet still he hadn't expected to happen upon her perched on the steps, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapping them.

The look on her face as she stared into the night was peaceful, but he knew that couldn't be so. How could there be peace when she had the knowledge of so many other people's pain in her head?

"You know," she started, aware of his presence the moment he'd stepped across the threshold, "it's not so bad, being a vampire. I'm not trying to sell you on it—I mean, whatever we are _now_ , we could be trying to kill each other in a week's or month's or year's time—just that I would've thought there was nothing remarkable about being a monster, but, as I look out, I see the different hues blending together to make the night sky that exact shade of blue. I see the craters on the moon in vivid detail. I can hear the people walking about in the park down the road if I listen close."

Crossing the porch, he swept the length of his robes against the backs of his legs and sat beside her. "That sounds lovely . . . and burdensome, somehow."

Her brows pinched together. "Actually, that's a good way to put it. For every positive thing I can suss out from this mess, there's some negative aspect I might not even be considering."

"And some negative aspects you've already considered, despite not wanting to, I'd imagine."

She nodded, pouting a little. She wasn't going to bring up the point about never being able to have a child. There was too much attached to that single thing. They were only together as they were because of what she was _now._ There was the very fresh memory of Allyria Burke-Malfoy's tale, very much centered on the lengths she and her husband went to for the sake of becoming parents. It made Hermione realize, very distinctly, that while she probably had loved Bartholomew a great deal, he hadn't been for Allyria what Mr. Malfoy was for _her._ She couldn't imagine letting him 'bed another woman until she became with child.'

And some niggling impression in her gut told her he wouldn't want to, either. Not just the idea of his being older—which seemed a moot point given that she could live for a thousand years and never age another day—nor already having a grown child, but that she knew her own territorial emotions were reflected in him. He would not want a woman who wasn't _her_.

It did make her wonder if perhaps in her travels after 'death', Allyria had happened upon the person who _was_ that for her. She didn't bother wondering what Allyria would think of her son's atrocious legacy. Unless they could find some clue as to where she'd gone, considering anything about her was pointless.

"You don't have to speak on any of it unless you wish," he said softly, picking up on her somber demeanor.

"Thank you." She tipped sideways a little, leaning into him. He responded by lifting his arm so she could fit herself against his side. "Same goes for you. I won't force you, but I know there's a lot you must be feeling about all this."

Lucius nodded, sighing through his nostrils as he let his chin rest atop her head. "I think more emotional matters are best left for after we've dealt with the immediate danger."

_Astor_. "Agreed."

They were silent for a moment before Mr. Malfoy felt the need break the serene quiet. "There is one feeling I'd like to discuss now."

"Oh?"

"Only that I don't think you're a monster."

She snickered. "Says the man whose blood I've been drinking to survive?"

His mouth tugged downward in a thoughtful frown. "All right. Maybe a little one."

Whether he meant she wasn't _that_ monstrous, or that she was a _little_ monster didn't matter. Either way, Hermione found herself smiling at the very un-Malfoy warmth in his voice.


	93. Chapter 93

**Chapter Ninety-Three**

He stood in the kitchen, staring at the open door to the servant's quarters. How on earth had they found it after all this time?

His shoulders slumped as he sucked his teeth in a distinctly undignified display of irritation. It was _her_. The one he'd bitten, there was no other explanation. He could certainly smell them down there with the entryways left unbarred, but for _her_ to have found them through walls and floors mere days after turning? Her senses must be sharper than he'd expected possible.

Holding in a growl at his own oversight—his research had taught him things could go . . . sideways when one turned a witch or wizard. No such complication had happened to him, nor to that useless child of his, so he had suspected such information no more than a fable within a fable until now. But then, vampires were real, so why not those who's magic gave them an edge?

Killing the others might not go as easily as planned if she stood against him. What a bother.

Strolling across the dusty floor, he spied their footprints easily in the darkness. He followed them down the staircase, into the oubliette.

The skeletons remained untouched. And yet . . . . Turning his head toward his research table, he noticed his scrolls—the documents meant to be sealed down here with so-called family's earthly remains—were missing.

If they managed to rouse Patricia from her stupor, then between her scattered memories and his own words, they might even the entire picture of what had happened down here. Well, _nearly_.

Strolling over to the skeletons, he stopped before one in particular. Kneeling, he lifted the skull's chin with two fingers, a gentle maneuver, as one might touch a lover.

Thoughtful, his teeth scraped his lower lip as he gazed into the empty eye sockets. "Don't worry, they'll never guess who _you_ were."


	94. Chapter 94

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this opportunity to remind this fic's readers of something about me that seems to have become forgotten. . . . I started out in the HP fandom writing horror. ;)

**Chapter Ninety-Four**

What time of day was it? There was no telling. That was the problem—the dread, really—of being surrounded by darkness. All of it. Everywhere. No end to it. Nothing would grow in this fetid soil. Nothing _could._ Not a single breeze of fresh air from outside through a crack in the wall, nor any glimpse of light. Sun or moon would not even matter when one had gone so long without anything but shadows that tears blurred the vision.

Times passed when up was indistinguishable from down.

When the thirst burned so bad the sensation left scorched veins in its wake.

When the numbness was no longer a blessing, but a thing that plucked, slow and sure, at what precious little sanity might be left. There was some that remained, of course, there must be, lurking in a dark corner of the mind, hiding behind madness for safety's sake.

For the sake of hope. Yet even hope was fading as of late. Or perhaps it had been fading forever and keeping track was simply impossible now.

Feeble arms reached and scraped, _hoping_ toward those distant walls. Feeble legs pushed without strength, inching the poor, bereft shamble of a body across the dry, crumbling earth beneath it.

Perhaps to keep struggling on was useless. To not simply lay down and die pointless.

Yet there was that horrible, torturous spark. _Hope_.

Maybe this would be the day these feeble limbs would reach the entrance. But then, the same thought occurred the day before. And the day before . . . . And the day before.

Hope dictated that rescue was imminent, just on the other side of these walls. Just beyond that so far away door.

But failure was just as likely. Scraping at the heart, whittling at the willpower. Giving up would be so easy. Letting one's eyes close and limbs cease movement . . . as if the grace of death had finally come.

But the feeble arms continued to drag.

The feeble legs continued to push along.

Just like the day before.

And the day before.

And the day before.


	95. Chapter 95

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, after a long and emotionally trying day, I'm only getting to this chapter now. I can't promise it won't be of subpar quality. You remember when I said sometimes writing these drabbles takes whatever creative energy I have for that day? Well, I don't really have the energy to write tonight, but I promised you guys, so here we are.

**Chapter Ninety-Five**

Lucius frowned, quill paused above the parchment. He didn't even realize he was lost in thought, not until a spot of ink, black and glistening, dripped from the point, dotting the paper in a most graceless manner.

He set down the writing implement and carefully tore the top edge from the page.

At the sound of parchment crumpling, Hermione stood from her place beside a telly-fixated Patricia and crossed the living room. Standing behind him, she bent to peer around his shoulder.

Her brows shot up as she watched him lightly toss the wadded bit of parchment across the desk. "What's the matter?"

"Was it my desecration of paper products, or a sense of my mood that lured you from that absurdity on the screen?"

As if on cue, Patricia let out a high-pitched giggle, remembering only belatedly to cover her mouth with her fingers to stifle the jubilant sound. Hermione glanced back at the blonde to find her pointing with her free hand toward the aforementioned absurdity.

"A bit of both, I suppose. You didn't answer the question."

Lucius darted his gaze up to meet hers for a moment and then returned to the blank sheet awaiting his attention. "I've no idea what to tell Draco about any of this."

Nodding, Hermione pursed her lips in thought. She wanted to tell him to hold off on writing anything for the time being, but they did promise to keep him in the loop and knowing Draco, if he didn't hear anything, he'd assume the worst and come right back.

"Do you know where he actually went?" Not that it mattered, any owlery worth its population's feathers would have the necessary charms to help their owls locate their recipients wherever they might be, but she wanted to live vicariously for a moment. Imagining Draco and Astoria—oh, dear God. Astor, Astoria? She wondered if Draco had to give himself a little shake whenever he said his fiancee's name—in some warm, sunny locale was strangely comforting.

Imagining the sun, at all, was comforting if a bit sad.

"No, and I'm trying not to guess."

With a sigh, Hermione reached over his shoulder and slipped the quill from his fingers. He turned in the seat to face her.

"No one needs to know about Astor's birth mother."

Lucius' brows pinched together in disbelief. "No?"

Sympathetic toward his confusion, she touched his cheek in a delicate gesture. "Does it really change anything? Do you feel 'less-than' somehow with this knowledge?"

He knew there was a deeper reasoning within her question. Not simply did he see himself as less-than, but did having lineage from someone like her—born a Muggle, now a vampire, both things he never suspected lingered in his blood before today—make him somehow no longer himself?

"No," he answered, holding her gaze steadily.

She shrugged, smiling warmly. "Then he doesn't need to know that part. He doesn't need to know about Astor's parents, at all. If it comes up somehow, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Stick with the basics. Patricia is awake and lucid, we're coming up with a plan for how to handle Astor, and we'll let him know when it's safe for him and Astoria can come back."

His features scrunched. "Oh! I just noticed that. Astor, Astoria?" He gave the tiniest and most dignified of shivers.

Hermione's brows shot up and she laughed. "That's what _I_ thought, too!" Letting the mirthful sound die out, she went on, "Nobody needs to know about Allyria's surrogate. No one will hear it from me."

"Nor me!" Patricia called out from her place still on the sofa.

Hermione and Lucius turned to watch her a moment. Her attention had never left the screen even as she'd obviously been listening to their conversation.

Smirking, Hermione turned back to look at Lucius. There was an unspoken question it their shared look. How would they explain to Draco his several-times-great aunt's juvenile and innocent demeanor?

His lips tugged to one side before Lucius regarded Patricia once more, speaking in a resigned murmur to Miss Granger. "Well, he's always wished for a sibling."


	96. Chapter 96

**Chapter Ninety-Six**

"How have you lived so long?"

The question was bound to be asked. How could Hugh and the others possibly think Patricia was capable of surviving on her own? But then, maybe Hermione was misjudging. Maybe the other young woman was stronger than her docile demeanor hinted at.

A person didn't have to be standing steady and stoic every moment of the day—perhaps that was a memo one could pass on to Mr. Malfoy. There was strength in accepting your weaknesses, in confronting your emotions rather than stuffing them away or ignoring them. Yes, ignoring emotions was more a sign of fragility.

Given the people in the room and their histories, perhaps Patricia Malfoy was the strongest of them.

Patricia's brows drew upward as though she didn't quite understand the question. "Because I'm a vampire?"

"Oh." Hermione pursed her lips, not bothering to exchange a look with Lucius, whom she could already tell was giving her a sassing expression over not being more specific. "I mean I could tell your father wasn't letting you feed. I was wondering how you managed to go on for so long while starving like that?"

Now was Patricia's turn to say, "Oh," and press her lips together in thought. "Of course you wouldn't know. We can't die of starvation. We grow weak, of course, as any functioning creature. We may even collapse, but lack of blood won't kill us. Only bring us low enough that we;re defenseless, incapable of function beyond continuing to exist."

"I don't know if that's impressive or horrifying," Mr. Malfoy contributed in a troubled whisper.

Patricia shrugged. Clearly this was an observation she'd made, herself.

"Then how were you able to . . . wait . . . ." Hermione shook her head as she tried to sort the things going through her mind. "You didn't cry."

Both Malfoys present asked, "What?"

"Last night, when you were sobbing. It didn't occur to me at the time, but your cheeks were dry."

"Yes. When turning, there's a small window of time when one is vulnerable with the method Hugh had to use. I hit my head and it damaged my eyes a little."

Hermione's jaw fell. "Your tear ducts don't work."

Patricia shook her head, shrugging once more.

"You didn't waste blood. No matter your reaction to your father's deplorable treatment. He . . . he didn't know, did he? About your injury?"

"I don't see how he could have. I never told him and I never gave him blood memories."

Lucius looked from one vampire-witch to the other. "So, you're saying he underestimated her?"

Hermione smiled, nodding. "He likely thought her lack of tears when she cried was a sign that she was starving. And the blood in her body . . . it must've been like a human body storing fat. When someone's body goes into starvation mode, it tries to preserve fat cells in order to keep the body going."

"But if starvation couldn't kill them, why did you feed Hugh and the others?"

"Because before they stopped reacting to their thirst, it hurts. Eventually the pain becomes so constant, it might be all we know. I couldn't bear to let them keep hurting if I could help it."

Hermione frowned. "Were you in pain? When we found you last night?"

Again, Patricia nodded. "Before the blood you gave me, yes."

Though she wouldn't think it just now—this wasn't the time—the idea of existing in pain like that terrified Hermione. "You mentioned the method Hugh used to turn you, and in your memories, he mentioned there was a way to make you stronger right from the off, but there wasn't time. Do you know what that was?"

"Yes. It's to kill your victim."


	97. Chapter 97

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today marks the start of Phase 2 of Reopening in NYC. Since each Phase is 2 weeks, we've got another month of this fic to look forward to. Maybe I can wrangle it so the last chapter lines up with the last day! O_O

**Chapter Ninety-Seven**

The brunette's face fell. "Wait, what?"

"I was told if a vampire drains someone to death, they have to destroy the body so as to not 'accidentally' create an unwanted thing. I didn't tell Father that," Patricia said, a secretive smile playing on her lips.

"So . . . hang on. When he shut me up in that box and buried me, you knew it wasn't the end for me?"

"No, I _hoped_ it wasn't. I'd never bitten anyone but Father, so I had no idea if it could work. I also didn't know how long it would take, so when you didn't wake before he put you in the ground, I _thought_ you were dead."

"You mean, in killing her, he 'accidentally' made her stronger?" Mr. Malfoy looked as though he wished he'd been taking notes on all of this.

"If what Hugh told me was true, then yes."

Hermione's brows pinched together as she turned her face away from Patricia, meeting Lucius' gaze. "Perhaps that's why I require so little blood to get by . . . aside from the crying, of course."

"Can you cast magic still?"

Returning her attention to Patricia, Hermione shrugged. "Well, somewhat. I'm not certain how to control it, yet. Haven't really had time to try to figure it out, but it's still there, yeah."

"Then you're unique. Father and I lost our magic when we were turned. Hugh and the others were Muggles."

"And now she tells us she fell in love with a _Muggle_ vampire?" Mr. Malfoy's voice was a dumbstruck whisper. "Will this night never end?"

Hermione wanted to be sympathetic to another show of his ancestors' easy acceptance of Muggles in their daily lives, but her soft expression instead came out as an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She wasn't just feeling sympathy, but also exasperation with his 'oh, no, more Muggles!' nonsense, it wasn't a surprise the exasperation won out this time.

"So," she said, refocusing on the discussion with Patricia, "you're saying that all of this, the magic, the lesser quantity of blood, is because your father left me for dead?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Great! Now if we could just stop me from shedding tears, too, I imagine I could be a real powerhouse."

"I know you're joking, but there might be a spell or a charm that could block the tear ducts."

Hermione considered Lucius for a few moments before shaking her head. "Seems like a waste of energy, at least for the time being. We need to concentrate on how to find Astor. He has to know by now that we have Patricia."

Mr. Malfoy made a thoughtful humming sound. "I'm loathe to suggest it, but perhaps we return to the graveyard with her? Let the fresher scent draw him to us?"

"No," Hermione said without a second thought. She didn't need to see the flash of panic through Patricia's mauve-grey eyes to know the idea hadn't been well received. "If something goes wrong, she'll be in danger from him again."

They all fell silent for a bit, but then Hermione sat up perfectly straight, her brows arched so high upward they nearly disappeared into her hair. "Me," she said once her not at all subtle movement had drawn the attention of both Malfoys present.

She looked from one to the other and back. "He doesn't know he accidentally made me a better vampire, right? So I can pretend to be weak and lost and—"

"Can you?" Lucius asked more out of disbelief that this absurdity was even falling from her lips than to actually question her first inklings of a plan. He didn't think Miss Granger _could_ play the helpless card—not believably, she simply did not do 'helpless' well—and he certainly didn't want to grant her carde blanche to try.

Hermione clenched her teeth. "I can! Besides, it's our only option to lure him out _and_ protect Patricia. There's no argument." She went on, trying to make her voice gentle for his benefit, "I might be able to follow his scent to locate him, and then we lure him out using _me_ as bait."


	98. Chapter 98

**Chapter Ninety-Eight**

"Oh, look . . . a letter from your father."

Draco just about spat out the glass of wine he'd been relaxing with in front of the fire at his fiancee's slightly shrill tone. Astoria sounding like that was never a good thing. He'd been doing so well! Putting on such a show of being tranquil, of wanting nothing more than to spend time with her in this peaceful little cottage in the far-off countryside.

But her tone very much indicated that she was on to him being not entirely forthcoming and a letter from Father? Not what he'd expected at all.

Bloody owleries and their bloody charms.

"You know what, love?" he started as he set down his glass and fluidly—with great effort to remain seeming mellow—rose from the plush armchair. "Father's going . . . through some things, perhaps it's better I read that in—"

"In private?" Astoria's brows shot up as she put the envelope behind her back, out of his reach unless he _really_ wanted to fight her for it. "What's so awful that you can't share it with the woman you're about to marry?"

_So much, I wouldn't even know where to begin . . . ._ "It's, well, a family matter, and—"

She uttered a scoffing sound that immediately let him know this was entirely the wrong tack. "Family matter? Draco Malfoy, I am about to be your family, too. And his. And you are going to tell me what this is all about. The spontaneous trip, your father running off like that at the Leaky Cauldron, you vanishing for half a bloody day without explanation, your behavior since coming here—"

"I have been a _delight_ since coming here!" Draco's shocked retort was accompanied by sharp scowl that would make his father proud.

"That'd be my point!" She absolutely was not going to let one of his Malfoy tantrums derail her. "I may love you, but I also know you are never that pleasant unless you're putting on a show. which means you're hiding something. You're going to tell me what's going on, and you're going to tell me _now!"_

His head falling back so that he might stare daggers at the ceiling, Draco let an aggravated groan rumbled out of his throat. He collapsed backward into his chair and retrieved his wine glass. "Fine. But you might want to pour yourself something first."

And she did. Poured her drink, handed him the letter, settled on the chaise across from him in a most ladylike fashion. After reading the letter aloud—at her _distinctly_ vehement behest—he backtracked to explain the situation to his very wide-eyed fiancée.

Look at that, he had known where to begin, after all.

Once he finished, Astoria polished off the remainder of her glass in one long, draining drink. Setting down the glass, she nodded and then shot to her feet. "All right, let's go."

Draco's jaw fell as he glanced about. "Go? Where?"

"To help them, of course!"

Shooting to his feet, he held up his hands. "You can't be serious! _They_ are the ones who had me take _you_ away to protect you _._ "

"And I appreciate the concern, but I _hardly_ need protecting!" Astoria was already storming about the place, collecting their cloaks and wands. "We are talking about your own father, a bloody war hero, and . . . one of your . . . ancestors, for some reason. And you expect me to sit here on my arse safely sipping wine? I don't bloody think so!" She pushed his things against his chest, waiting for him to grab them as she snapped, "We're going!"


	99. Chapter 99

**Chapter Ninety-Nine**

Introducing Patricia Malfoy, witch of the 1600s, to the modern wonder that was the shower had been . . . an _adventure_. She'd been startled half to death by the sputtering spray of water that had shot out, literally raining chilly water down on her head. Hermione, who'd been standing with her back to the tub at the time—there in dual roles of support and supervision—had assured her the water would warm up and that, yes, it _was_ supposed to make that 'disturbingly unsafe-seeming' noise.

Patricia's unfamiliarity with modern plumbing, and memories of having servants, left her with little concern for modesty, and so she'd seemed to think Hermione was being foolish in bothering to give her the illusion of privacy in the first place.

There had been a bit of fuss with the shampoo and conditioner. After the first two times of the poor dear getting shampoo in her eyes, Hermione took over, deciding to save them both time by combining the shampoo and conditioner before advising the other young woman to cover her eyes with her hands while she worked the long pale locks into a rich lather. Patricia apparently found the process of having her hair rinsed out ticklish, resulting in the small bathroom filling with high-pitched giggles.

What seemed entirely too soon after—bathing was supposed to take far longer than a few minutes!—she watched in a sort of helpless fascination as Hermione measured a few garments against her towel-wrapped frame and then started rooting about in her bureau drawers. Without much more consultation, the brunette picked out a number of items and toss the onto the bed.

By the time Hermione was done, Patricia looked every inch a modern Muggle young woman. Albeit, one who didn't much like the stiffness of 'jeans,' but adored the flowing sleeves and loose fit of the—in her opinion—poorly named 'peasant blouse.'

When they returned downstairs, Lucius looked them each over with raised brows. Clearly, he shared Hermione's descriptive of Patricia's new appearance, if the exasperated frown gracing his lips was any gauge. Then, he turned his attention to Miss Granger. The frown faded, but the delicate skin under his crinkled.

"Are we off to commit a robbery?"

"Huh?" Hermione ducked her chin to give herself a once-over. She'd not really considered what she'd thrown on, having been more focused on helping Patricia. The black leggings and matched turtleneck certainly did scream nighttime telly cat burglar costume, which made her wonder just want he'd been watching while she and Patricia had been upstairs.

Meeting his quietly mirthful eyes with a soured looked, she said, "Oh, shut up."

A trickle of alarm wound through her and Hermione immediately rounded to face the backdoor, her teeth bared. In the same heartbeat, Patricia had moved, too, ducking behind the china cupboard faster than Lucius could blink. By the time his wand was drawn—the wildly different responses of the two vampires speaking volumes about their demeanors—Hermione was relaxing her defensive posture. Patricia was still in hiding, however, peering out from around the edge of the cupboard with enormous eyes.

"Oh, my Go—" Miss Granger cut herself off with an irritated breath. "It's Draco!"

No sooner had the words left her lips than had a knock sounded at the backdoor.

Her brow furrowed, curious. "And someone . . . ." Someone whose scent she'd certainly never encountered since being bitten. "New?"

Lucius and Patricia exchanged a glance, looking very related just then as they each shrugged. With his free hand, he cautioned Patricia to stay where she was while he trailed along behind Hermione.

She wrenched open the door. The resigned look on Draco's face was hilariously contrasted by the beaming smile on his fiancee's lips.

"Draco and . . . Astoria? Wha . . . ?" Hermione couldn't even finish the question.

"We're here to help!" the other brunette announced brightly, oddly cheerful, as though they weren't planning to go up against a centuries-old vampire who was both psychotic and a complete sadist.

"Granger," Draco said, his voice completely opposite of Astoria's in it's utter lack of exuberance. He looked her over and his brow furrowed. "Are we breaking into someone's house tonight?"


	100. Chapter 100

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE HUNDRED! Chapter FRIGGIN' ONE HUNDRED! Phew, wasn't sure we'd get here, were you? That's okay, I wasn't sure, either ;) So, I did some time-tabling and if I bring manage to tie this up so that posting of the final chapter lines up with the last day of quarantine, or first day of Phase 4 here, which means we're looking at another 24 or 25 chapters (respectively). If I can't tie it off by then (just because I may overextend in making sure I've got you guys covered until that last day), then the fic will simply continue (until it reaches its natural conclusion, I mean; I'm not going to be providing you lot with daily drabbles for the rest of my life ;p).
> 
> Besides, if I don't finish this, I can never get to the other fic I have waiting wherein our favorite DEs are the vampires and Hermione is the poor human witch who finds herself trapped with them 😉

**Chapter One Hundred**

Lucius was pacing angrily—how one managed to make walking in circles look aggressive, Hermione wasn't sure, but her wizard certainly managed—Patricia had crept out of her hiding place but remained a wary distance from the newcomers, despite that she evidently recognized Draco on-sight as a Malfoy, and Hermione had made introductions because clearly she was the only _sane_ person present.

Annoyed in spite of herself that they'd ignored her and Mr. Malfoy's attempts to keep them out of this mess . . . . She held in a growl and forced a small, quick smile in its place.

"Let me understand this," she started, the cadence of her words steady, balanced in a way she did not feel at the moment. "We _specifically_ sent you away for your own safety, and yet you up and decided 'no, no, please, we _like_ the danger'?"

"I just couldn't standby!" Astoria frowned. "But don't blame Draco, I made him tell me."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Made him?"

Draco sighed and collapsed onto the sofa. "There'd have been no living with her if I _hadn't_ told her what she wanted to know."

" _And_ been honest about it," Astoria tacked on with an arched brow.

With an eloquent, Malfoy-esque roll of his eyes, Draco echoed, " _And_ been honest about it."

Hermione folded her lips on a grin, turning to glance at Mr. Malfoy a moment. He was making nearly the same expression as she was. Returning her attention to Astoria, she leaned close and whispered, "You know you can do better than a Malfoy, yeah?"

Astoria made a small peeping sound that was clearly a quickly-stifled laugh, and nodded. "The same could be said for you."

A quiet voice suddenly rushed into the conversation from beside the pair of brunettes. "Why are we whispering?" They both jumped, gasping.

"Dear Lord, Patricia!" Hermione fought with herself not to snap at her. "Nothing, just . . . questioning our life choices." She proceeded to explain the plan, which—admittedly—wasn't much of a plan. Go to the graveyard, track Astor, when located, offer herself up to lure him to them.

Patricia added in the information about Hermione— _possibly_ —being stronger than the average newly-bitten vampire. Lucius added in the fact that he—sincerely—thought this was all utter madness, but did not see a better plan.

"Well," Astoria said, nodding as she gripped her wand tight, "if we're going to do this, then let's not waste time. From what I've heard, the sooner that bastard—I know he's your blood relation, no offense—"

"None taken," all three Malfoys answered in the same breath.

The still-living witch nodded obligingly, "The better off we'll all be. Think of all his future victims we're saving!"

Hermione looked at Draco. "She really is too good for you, you know that?"

"Yes," Draco replied in a grousing tone, "as my father has often told me, men are usually blessed to attract women we could never hope to live up to."

All three females turned their attention to the man in question with lifted brows. Lucius merely stared off, refusing to meet any of their gazes, as though the pattern of the wood paneled walls was suddenly far too interesting to ignore.

Astoria leaned over, murmuring in Hermione's ear. "I take it back, you've got better than I thought."

Patricia gasped, diverting everyone's attention entirely as she excitedly clapped her hands together. "Oh! This is kind of exciting! Like a family adventure!"

When everyone turned their gazes on Hermione, the Muggle-born winced. "I've . . . been letting her watch the telly," she explained, aware the pure-blood couple knew what that was from Muggle Studies. "Might not've been a good influence on her."

"Right then." Draco stood and led the way to the door. "No more putting it off."

As they filed out of the house, Hermione was next-to-last, followed by Lucius. Just when they reached the door, he caught her elbow. "Miss Granger?"

"Mr. Malfoy?" she answered automatically as she looked up at him.

"I noticed something peculiar. You don't seem to get 'scared' anymore, your instincts take over and you respond like a cornered predator ready to attack or defend—"

"Well, thank you for _that_ ," Hermione interjected with a confused furrowing of her brow.

"No, no." He sighed. "What I mean is when Patricia surprised you just now, you jumped. Your reaction was no different from a startled human. Why?"

"Oh." She shrugged. "I suppose it's that I—on an instinctive level—knew I was in a situation where there was no danger. Sort of like . . . ." No, of course Lucius Malfoy would have no idea who _Spider-man_ was, and any attempt to picture someone fitting that name _without_ visual reference might well induce nightmares. "Never mind. Shall we?"

"One last thing."

A shocked squeal erupted from her as pulled her to him for a quick yet hungry kiss. When he pulled back, she stared up at him a bit dazed.

"More on _that_ after we've dealt with Astor," he said, stepping out the door, finally.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh as she followed him out. "Promise?"


	101. Chapter 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very happy you all enjoy my spin on the Astoria Greengrass character 😊

**Chapter One Hundred One**

For a pure-blood witch—regardless of her more down-to-earth and less elitist nature—Astoria Greengrass was, at least in this moment, unabashedly undignified in her jumpiness. Perhaps it was that she'd never been to this graveyard, or any for that matter, in the dead of night—the pun was _not_ intended. Perhaps it was that the very sight of the tall wrought-iron gates as they approached reminded her that they were on the hunt for a psychotic vampire.

Despite Hermione's confidence, despite Patricia's juvenile exuberance, despite both Malfoy wizards quietly grumbling to themselves about how little under their control the situation had become, as though it had ever been. Yes, despite all that, which should probably make the situation seem not quite so serious, or somewhat 'normal'—if this motley assortment of people working together toward anything could be considered _normal_ —maybe even a little thrilling, despite her own show of willingness and bravado, Astoria could admit to herself that she was scared.

She thought she was disguising her jitteriness with what should seem situation-appropriate wary glances over her shoulder, but as they paused for Mr. Malfoy to unlock the gates, Draco caught her hand in his and pulled her a bit away from the others.

"You can go back to the vacation cottage, or Granger's house, if you want," he said in a tone that was very un-Draco Malfoy. Or, at least, very unlike what he permitted the public to see of him. This gentle, careful pitch shading his voice? That was always and only just for _her_.

"What?" she asked, breathing an airy, dismissive giggle. "No, no. I'm fine, honest."

"Really?" He flicked a glance to the top of her head and then met her eyes, again. "Well, if you're not shivering, then I suggest you tell your hair, because you're looking a bit like a spooked cat, right now."

Tsking, she snatched her hand from his and smoothed her fingers along her normally sleek wood-brown hair.

Offering her a grin, he went on. "I just want you to _feel_ safe. If that means you go back, then you go back."

She frowned, even though she was warmed by his concern. "Thank you, but I'll never feel safe while this . . . creature might come for you, or anyone here. I'll _feel safe_ when I know Astor Malfoy is dead. Oh." Astoria crinkled the bridge of her nose as she realized—she'd been so caught up in the anxiety and excitement of this entire scenario that it hadn't occurred to her. "My name and his are so similar. That's quiet unsettling."

"Yeah, pretty sure we've all just decided not to think about it." He laughed when she narrowed her eyes at him in feigned disdain. "You're really sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. I told you, I can take care of myself. I am scared, certainly, but that's okay. I'm not some shrinking violet who's going to wilt and fall to pieces from having her nerves jangled."

"How did I ever manage to end up with someone as amazing as you?" he asked, feeling whimsical for the moment, despite their _nerve-jangling_ situation.

"You got lucky. I was feeling extremely generous the day you decided to strike up that first conversation with me."

He was leaning closer, but so was she. Everything else, the gates, the graves beyond, the vampires and wizard in their company, seemed to fall away.

Until the impatient clearing of a throat brought them both crashing back to reality. The couple shared a wince as they turned to look.

Inside the open gates, the other three stood watching them. Lucius appeared quite thoroughly impressed with his own boredom, Patricia was grinning ear-to-ear with her dainty hands clasped before her, and Granger was looking at them with a mix of expectancy and mystification, as though her thoughts read clearly _Where is the real Draco Malfoy and what have you done with him?_ , yet at the same time, _Oh, just kiss her already so we can get on with this._

Reclaiming Astoria's hand, he scowled at the three of them. "Oh, shut up," he said, grousing as he and his fiancée joined them.


	102. Chapter 102

**Chapter One Hundred Two**

Hermione still hated this place as much as she had when Mr. Malfoy had first pulled her from that ruddy box in the ground. And this _certainly_ exceeded the number of times she wished to visit a graveyard in the same calendar week.

She wondered if it was odd to be a vampire who'd prefer to be on a beach with a book in hand—ignoring the whole 'the sun's rays lure in and subdue a vampire within seconds' issue for the moment—over _this_. This entirety she felt with the night, yes, that was the best way to describe the impression. In the dark, beneath the stars, beneath the reflected, harmless light of the moon, with her newly superior senses, with the strength and speed typically reserved for characters in Muggle fictions. She had a freedom in this that she'd never expected. If she wanted to . . . rob a bank, or walk into the ocean to explore its depths, or any of a million things that weren't _her_ , or had been impossible before, who could honestly stop someone like her?

Only another like her, that was the obvious answer. She had been reluctant to think this entire time on how strong, how fast, Astor might be. Perhaps they'd all been, merely accepting that he was a wildly dangerous creature in an abstract sense, the way one considers the prowess of a tiger or lion at the zoo, appreciating that they were mighty hunters without ever weighing the inherent peril of being face-to-face with one. Astor Malfoy had obviously been feeding on a regular basis—much more regular than he'd permitted Patricia, at the very least—he was over 300 years old, _and_ he had a painfully evident malicious streak on his side.

They also hadn't considered he might be a sociopath, incapable of empathizing with the emotions of others, possibly having no true emotions of his own, only the reflection of what he saw from others that he'd have taught himself to mimic so no one would catch on. That might explain how he was capable of committing such atrocities on living creatures capable of crying out as he tortured them . . . .

"Miss Granger?"

Startled by her name pulling her back to her senses, she looked up. They were in front of the mausoleum, already. Hermione hadn't even realized her thoughts had wandered so very much until she found concern in Lucius Malfoy's grey eyes as he held her gaze.

She looked about at the group before returning her attention to him. "Sorry, my mind was . . . . I just wasn't paying attention to how worried we should all be about this. It's funny, we could be ramping ourselves up for a completely anti-climatic moment. You know? Like he ends up being far easier to kill than we're letting ourselves believe. _Or_ he could really be the nightmare Patricia and I dread him to be."

Once more, she glanced around at everyone and then looked up at Mr. Malfoy. "I'm just scared, for you. For all of us."

Exhaling slow through his nostrils, Lucius nodded in understanding. "You'd not be half as intelligent as the world believes you to be if you weren't. You can do this. _We_ can do this."

"I'm scared, too!" Patricia piped up, shifting her weight from leg to leg when everyone turned to look at her. "I know he's a monster—in a way we're not—and I want him dead, but . . . he's still my father." Her brow furrowed and she nodded. "It's quite an odd feeling, really. But I am terrified, and that's okay. I mean, it's a healthy response."

Hermione smiled at her, curious. "Exactly what were you watching on the telly the last two nights?"

"A lot of things. One was this really interesting play, with a bald man who sat people down and told them all about how their problems were caused by something not-quite-right in their heads or by troubles in their youth!"

Snickering, Hermione nodded, aware she was the only one present who'd know exactly what 'play' Patricia was talking about. "Of course."


	103. Chapter 103

**Chapter One Hundred Three**

Astoria turned a wilting expression on Draco.

He had the grace to appear startled. "What?"

"The _vampires_ are scared; you don't see your father telling either of _them_ to go back."

"Oh, for pity's sake, I'm sorry I even suggested it. Honestly." He wrenched upon the door to the mausoleum. "Ladies first, I suppose?"

"Maybe it should be vampires first," Hermione suggested before another squabble could break out between the couple. "After all, we don't know if he might be in there somewhere."

"Miss Granger," Lucius cautioned as she stepped forward, clearly of the same thought, "perhaps I should—"

"Nonsense." Hermione met his gaze, shaking her head. "If he _is_ in there somewhere, and he sees us before we see him, and he is as mad and dangerous as we believe, I'm really the one who stands the best chance of not being killed on-sight. It's the only option that doesn't risk a life."

Those grey eyes narrowed at her. "Your bravery can be quite vexing."

She nodded. "It only counts as 'bravery' when you're scared but doing it, anyway. Between the options of 'brave, so she's walking into danger' and 'useless lump of fear', I'll choose the former, thank you."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Patricia—Patricia, of _all_ present—said. Brushing past the pair standing in the doorway, she entered the weather-worn marble structure. "My apologies," she called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing off the walls of the cramped space around her, "the waiting was making me anxious."

Hermione realized they'd been stalling. Astoria and Draco, herself and Lucius, and they'd not even noticed. Pursing her lips, she followed after the other vampire-witch, aware of the others filing in behind her.

Despite their misgivings and notably founded fears, their search of the cavern rooms was fruitless and uneventful, aside from Patricia sparing a moment to steal back her jewelry box.

When she turned toward the group, she found them all watching her. "What? I'm never coming back here again, am I? I _refuse_ to leave my baubles behind. I never got to wear a single piece the last three hundred-plus years, all right?"

Hermione offered a smile and nodded. "It's okay, Patricia. You just caught us off-guard by breaking from the group, is all. Take it, we understand."

"We understand?" Draco echoed, dubious. "She's supposed to be of _any_ help while toting about a bloody—"

"It'll be fine, Draco," Astoria chimed in, her tone somehow both gentle and admonishing. Leaning close, she continue in a whisper, "Besides, we can't expect her to fight unless it _really_ comes to that. She may want to help, but we can't count on her being able to actually to do anything, because she might be too traumatized by her father to act against him."

He turned his attention on the the vampire in question. She absolutely looked like a Malfoy—though, at present, a Muggle-fied one, thanks to Granger—and he'd always been taught there was an inherent strength in that, he also knew well from his personal experiences, from watching his father's private reactions to his fall from grace during the Second War, that there was also a terrible, scathing sort of vulnerability that came with the weight of their family's name, as well. A burden. The deep-seeded need to do what image or propriety or expectancy demanded, regardless of right or wrong.

Patricia Malfoy had been warped into the very embodiment of that vulnerability by her father's cruelty—knowing what was right, but very much in danger of not being able to lift a finger to stop him.

With a sigh, he nodded. "Granger's right. It's okay."

After the jewelry box distraction, the party quickly got back on track. Hermione and Patricia led them through the tunnels, back to the spot from where they'd originally Disapparated to her house. The scent continued, leading them along a shore and back to the road.

And further, into a deserted Diagon Alley in the dark of night.


	104. Chapter 104

**Chapter One Hundred Four**

They wound through the street, no longer so concerned with anyone seeing Miss Granger now that they had the culprit's identity—though, Hermione had no idea how she'd explain to anyone who might see her that she was skulking about in the night with the Malfoy family. Any such concerns were unfounded, however, as they seemed the only creatures awake here at this hour.

Finding themselves back out on the street, the humans looked about, puzzled. Yet, as soon as Hermione and Patricia indicated the new direction, they were each overcome with a sinking feeling.

"I could be wrong about his destination, but Wiltshire _is_ in that direction," Lucius confirmed.

"He couldn't walk that far," Draco said, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "I know you lot move faster than us, and he can't Apparate, but still it'd take one of us, what? Over a day to walk that? Even if you whittled that down to a handful of hours because of his—I can't believe I'm going to say these words aloud—vampire speed, it would take _much_ too long. He'd risk getting caught in the sun if he couldn't get to shelter in time, and I don't imagine he'd bother with Muggle public transport."

Hermione, Lucius, and Patricia all exchanged a glance, but remained silent. Draco didn't know that Astor was perfectly aware he was a half-blood from a time when having Muggle blood was clearly not so frowned upon as he'd been led to believe. Astor Malfoy's many-times-great grandson obviously pictured a man who had managed to carry through the centuries a disdain of all things Muggle of which he could not be easily divested.

Despite her knowledge of the Astor's human life, Hermione, too, had trouble picturing this ancient, still-functioning Malfoy on a bus amongst modern Muggles. But then, he'd survived this long, he probably knew well how to blend by now. Probably knew how to control himself around them. He maybe even had it in him to joke and pretend at being pleasant in their presence.

The very notion of him sitting next to some unsuspecting person on a nighttime bus ride making innocuous, friendly chitchat made her skin crawl and her stomach churn.

Patricia didn't bother following her father's scent any further. It was clear, he'd gone this way. "He has a head start on us, remember? We've been—what's the Muggle term? Off-the-grid? Yes, that was it—for two days. He definitely could have run there if he started out early enough in the night, and human eyes wouldn't see him. He might've returned to the manor, at last, if he finally realized who you two are."

"You really are a quick learner," Hermione noted, and then became cognizant of something troubling. "But we'll understand if you want to go back to my house."

Blinking confused mauve-grey eyes, Patricia demanded, "Why?"

With a sigh, Hermione took the other vampire-witch's hand in her own, her touch delicate. "Because you suffered so much there. You had . . . ." Her throat closed on the words and she tried again; to bluntly describe the source of Patricia's trauma might only make things worse. "You had to leave Hugh and the others behind there. You had to listen to them suffering there. If you don't want to return, we'll understand."

"I know it will hurt me to go back." The blonde nodded, thoughtful for a moment. "But I want to. I _need_ to. I fled my home once to escape my father and failed. Now I've the chance to be rid of him! I've the chance to walk the Manor's corridors again _without_ my terror of him looming over me."

"Okay. I understand." Hermione turned to face the wizards and witch. She led Patricia over to Astoria and then took hold of Lucius' arm. "To Malfoy Manor."

There was nothing else to say. No more arguments or pleas to make. Everyone present was determined to play some part in Astor Malfoy's end.

Without another word, the group Disapparated, pulling the vampires Side-along.


	105. Chapter 105

**Chapter One Hundred Five**

Lucius thought Malfoy Manor—his childhood home, the same home in which he'd raised his own child—had never looked so terrifying and bleak as it did just now. Not when the Dark Lord had taken it over and his influence had seemed to infest every inch of the grounds, seeping into the very stone and wood of the structure and turning the house into something living, something breathing . . . something as dark as himself. So palpable was that imagery that it had often felt that if one sliced the walls, they might very well bleed the blackest of ichor.

Not when he'd been left alone. When the house had seemed far too large for one person to dwell in without feeling the scraping sensation of loneliness and depression trying to claw their way into his chest and replace what precious little of his heart life had left to him. When he would go for days without a wink of sleep, so that his mind twisted up on him and he stopped entering certain corridors, because the darkness within felt like something capable of reaching into him and tearing him to bits from the inside out.

No. Just now, staring at the resplendent estate home as they came out of Apparition—as the vampire-witches in his company confirmed that they did, in fact, detect Astor's scent here—the feeling that crept along his skin, threatening to take over, was far darker, for more insidious than any of that.

"Well," he said, in a forced mix of blasé and false joviality, "if we're to be murdered by my psychotic vampire ancestor, let's get to it."

Everyone—and he meant _everyone_ —turned to gape at him.

A small, barely perceptible gulp went down his throat. He shifted his attention to Miss Granger. "Not the time for my brand of dismissive humor, is it?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "No. However . . . my 'luring him into the open' plan did seem simpler when we didn't know he was in the manor. The place is enormous, he could be anywhere in there. And . . . by now he probably knows that _we_ know the horrible things he did when he was still alive."

"Between Patricia 'vanishing' with us, and his returning here . . . ." Draco frowned, pivoting to stare at the house, once more, "he knows that _we_ know exactly who he is."

"We only have one advantage," Astoria said, nodding. She met Hermione's expectant gaze, seeing the other brunette understood her thinking.

Nodding, Hermione offered, "He has no idea we're looking for him. Since he's aware that we know how . . . _terrible_ he is, he might think we're in hiding."

With this awareness, they proceeded along the walk, Lucius casting charms to muffle their movements, Astoria handling a wind charm, creating just enough of a breeze to carry their scent backward, away from the house as they approached. Draco shielded them with a reflection of their surroundings, camouflaging them the group.

Hermione and Patricia knew they could've been in the house in a blink to determine where he might be, but there was a silently agreed upon refusal to leave the others behind. There was strength in numbers, and no matter how powerful or twisted Astor Malfoy might be, he was still only _one_ creature.

Entering the home, the silence was deafening. Not a single lantern or chandelier had been lit, and that made perfect sense. Neither of the vampire-witches needed the light, either, but Hermione also knew that the moment one of the humans cast a light charm, they might as well start screaming for Astor to come find them.

Patricia's brow furrowed. Her eyes shooting wide,she gasped and shot off.

"What the—?"

"No idea," Hermione said in a whisper, cutting off the question Draco and Lucius asked in the same breath.

She could just barely hear a startled yelp come from the oubliette. "She's with the bodies," she informed the others before taking off in the same direction.

"Bloody hell," Lucius grumbled as he, Draco, and Astoria—against their collective better judgement—illuminated their wands and hurried after them.


	106. Chapter 106

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter is so short (yes, even for a drabble), but when you read it, you'll understand why the story screamed at me 'stop HERE!'

**Chapter One Hundred Six**

In the oubliette, they found no fighting. No new corpses. No _Astor_.

What they found, instead, was Hermione seated on the cold stone floor, cradling a weeping Patricia. The blonde was babbling at the other vampire-witch, repeating the same collection of rushed, breathless syllables over and over again.

"Astor _definitely_ came down here, we can smell him, but he's gone, now," Hermione assured them in as soft and gentle of a voice as she could manage while still being heard over Patricia's uncontrollable sobbing. "He might've even left the manor."

"What is she saying?" Lucius asked, completely mystified by the quick collapse of this entire scenario.

Wincing, Hermione ducked her head, putting her ear closer to Patricia's mouth. It wasn't easy, dissecting the flood of sound to root out the words.

What little color was in the brunette's cheeks drained and her eyes widened. Swallowing hard, she shifted in place to clamp her hands around Patricia's upper arms.

Lifting the blonde as well as she could to sit up straight, Hermione peered into her face. "You're sure?"

The question was met with a frenzied nod and Patricia spoke in a quick, rough whisper, the words still garbled by the tears crowding her throat.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the floor, appearing dumbstruck. "How is that possible? If that's so, then . . . who's number eight?"

" _What_ is happening?" Draco demanded, seemingly speaking for all three humans present.

Lifting her head, Hermione met each of their eyes in turn. "The skeletons . . . there are eight, there always were, but one is _wrong_."

Astoria braced herself to look around, taking in the awful sight of the chained corpses. "Wrong _how_?"

Sobering from her hysterics just enough to speak clearly, Patricia said, "Hugh. His body is _missing_. This one here, I . . . I think it's my mother."


	107. Chapter 107

**Chapter One Hundred Seven**

Astoria threw her free hand over her mouth, Patricia's words knocking her for a stomach churning loop. "I think I'm going to be sick," she mumbled through her fingers.

Draco couldn't seem to tear his gaze from the skeleton, his pale features drawn in an expression of revulsion as he wrapped an arm around his fiancée, the protective gesture automatic and instinctive.

Hermione simply stared into Patricia's troubled eyes. "You're absolutely certain?"

"I'm not certain it is Mother, but that _is_ who comes to mind with the scent—"

"What is she talking about?" Lucius asked, his brow furrowing.

Sighing, Hermione spared the moment to explain—she wasn't certain she'd actually told them what was so important yet vexing about this particular form of sensory identification. "We can't recognize a person's scent unless we've smelled it _after_ we've been bitten. The last time she saw her mother was when she was still alive."

"Whether it's Mother, or someone else who reminds me of her, somehow, I know for certain that it is _not_ Hugh."

A thought struck Hermione then. One that, were she in Patricia's place, would make her unbeating heart turn to a lump of ice in her chest. "Patricia? Hugh was the last one you . . . the last one who's suffering you ended, wasn't he?"

Blinking hard, the blonde nodded.

"How sure are you that you caused enough damage to kill him?"

Patricia gasped, her hands flying to her throat in a terrified manner. "You're . . . you're right! It was simply so hard to do. What if . . . what if all this time I only _thought_ I took away his suffering but instead I made it worse and then . . . oh, God, and then I left him here!"

"Good job calming her down, Granger."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped, not bothering to look up at Draco. "It was the only thing that made sense for how this could've happened."

"You thought about what it would be like for _you,_ " Mr. Malfoy said in a whisper, "if you had to kill me."

Hermione met his gaze and nodded quick, only able to hold his eyes for a moment before looking back into Patricia's face. "Don't you understand what this means? There's a chance, no matter how small, that Hugh might still be alive somewhere out there. And that your father knows what happened to him, maybe even knows where he is now."

"You're right." Patricia nodded, forcing a smile. "I can't crumble now."

Lucius extinguished his wand's light and headed toward the staircase.

"Mr. Malfoy, where're you going?"

"We need to make sure Astor really has left, and I _know_ this house. Sitting here like this? It could be a trap. We could be right where he wants us."

"No. No one is going _anywhere_ alone." Hermione climbed to her feet. "You may know the Manor grounds better than me or Astoria, but not better than other Malfoys. And I . . . ." She forced a small gulp and looked to Patricia as she extended a hand. "I can't let you endanger yourself like that."

At the way his father's expression softened with Granger's hushed admittance, Draco's face soured. "Now I think _I'm_ going to be sick." Astoria swatted his shoulder lightly in admonishment.

Hermione ignored the youngest Malfoy's cheek. "Patricia, c'mon. We can do this."

"Do we have a new plan, at least?" Draco asked, catching Astoria's hand in his own.

Knowing he wasn't asking out of concern for himself—shockingly, perhaps, given everything Hermione'd ever observed during their childhood years together, well, _almost_ everything. Even she could admit Draco Malfoy had his rare shining moments of bravery and attacks of conscience—but that having a set idea of how to proceed might convince Patricia to move, Hermione thought on how to handle the massive house. Astor Malfoy could still be here, somewhere. In the shadows, lurking, plotting.

It wasn't only for Patricia's sake that Hermione's mind began to cobble something together as fast as she could.


	108. Chapter 108

**Chapter One Hundred Eight**

"I'll go with Mr. Malfoy, you go with Draco and Astoria, we'll cover more ground that way _and_ you'll be protected. We'll go through the ground floor together, separate at the second-floor landing and comb opposite wings." She repressed the desire to shudder at the mental image of Astor Malfoy creeping along in the darkness somewhere, waiting to leap out at the first person to cross his path.

Giving her body a subtle shake, she forced herself to continue. "Our senses will tell us if he's truly gone. We'll meet back in foyer. The first group there comes to find the other _only_ if there's a troubling delay. With members of each party knowing the manor's layout, everyone should have a good idea of how long is _too_ long of a wait for the others."

"Perhaps I should be the one to go with Patricia," Lucius suggested, much to everyone's shock. He leaned close to Hermione, as though the others suddenly were not there, and murmured in her ear, "If she is, indeed, unable to act against him, there's no one better to have at her side than a seasoned wizard. And . . . it's best if we don't risk getting distracted."

Hermione considered that. Her and Mr. Malfoy. Alone. In the dark. Wandering the sometimes claustrophobic and dizzying corridors of Malfoy Manor that might push them closer together as they tried to walk side-by-side. That tempting warmth of his skin brushing so near to hers . . . .

It also became quickly evident that he'd not murmured quiet low enough in the stone room, and the words meant for Hermione's ears, alone, had met everyone's.

"Yes, of course," she said after what would've been a breath, nodding while skillfully ignoring both Astoria's hushed-but-playfully-scandalized giggle and Draco's face going a bit green at Mr. Malfoy's insinuation. Dropping her gaze back to Patricia's, Hermione forced a grin, as though unaware of their reactions. "Patricia?"

Patricia reached out, but hesitated. She knew what they thought of her, that she might be weak, after all, that she might still be easily cowed by her father's mere presence. But that was fine, because _she_ wasn't so certain she had it in her to be so bold when she next found herself face-to-face with him.

Turning her head to meet each of their gazes in turn before speaking, Patricia asked, "You _all_ promise I won't be alone? Not even for a moment?"

"Of course we do," Astoria answered for the group, her tone gentle.

As she accepted the other vampire-witch's hand in her own and helped her to her feet, Hermione met Lucius' gaze for a few seconds before she spoke to the group. "This part should go without saying, but stay on your guard, watch each other's backs." She knew there was a chance Astor had removed the bodies long ago in a deliberate attempt to create confusion should the dungeon ever be discovered—a task at which he had very nearly succeeded—and that Hugh could very much be dead. That he might simply be a pile of bones somewhere, but even _were_ that the case, Patricia deserved the closure. Dead or, well . . . _un_ -alive, they needed to get to him.

"And if you do encounter Astor, subdue him, try not to kill him. Not until we have answers. If he _does_ know where Hugh is, this might be our only chance to find him."


	109. Chapter 109

**Chapter One Hundred Nine**

Hermione, for all the confidence her new strength and abilities gave her, felt quite unimpressive as the group had separated into two and she wandered off into the darkness with Draco and Astoria. She was in the lead, of course, guided by whispered directions from Draco. Her dark vision made her the perfect person to take point, giving her an edge in the pitch-black perceived by human eyes. The couple trailed behind her, near enough to assist if necessary, far enough back that the light of their wands wouldn't attract attention to Hermione's presence ahead of them.

She'd appreciated before how large the manor was, but now, in the black without only outlines around her, it felt strangely small and cramped.

Every few steps, she stopped and listened. In each room she paused, circled, left nothing unturned. The scent was not as much help as she'd hoped. Astor had been all over the place—as if he'd intentionally traversed every corridor, entered every room. And perhaps he had. Not simply to revisit the nooks and crannies of his long-lost home, but maybe to deliberately mislead anyone who might look for him here.

Like with Hugh's body.

A strange weight pressed on her chest the further they went. The higher they climbed through the house. An unsettled feeling as she noticed seams in walls that didn't belong and she understood what they were.

No different than the false wall that had led her down into the oubliette.

"Draco?" she asked, low against the creaks and groans of the ancient house.

"Granger?"

Approaching one such seam, she ran gentle fingers over it. "Bring the light here."

Astoria stationed herself by the door, keeping an eye out along the corridor as Draco crossed the room. Raising his wand toward the spot Granger indicated, he leaned close, scrutinizing the seam. "Another secret room?"

"There're probably more. We can't ignore them." She shook her head. "And we know there's a chance Astor knows this house's secrets better than any of us. He might be hiding in a place we don't even know exists."

"We need to explore them, but we need to tell Father and Patricia to do the same, how?"

Hermione wasn't sure the magic she currently possessed would suffice, and she didn't have her own wand to attempt performing a complicated spell. "I dread to ask, since I doubt the answers will be helpful, but . . . can either of you summon a Patronus? We can pass the message that way. I've seen it done."

Draco sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "No. I think we'll need a different—"

"I can!" Astoria's voice came from the doorway, bright and helpful.

Hermione smiled, while Draco's face fell in shock.

Finding the edge of the seam, Hermione pulled open the hidden door. Peering in, she spied a narrow corridor. She didn't know if she was annoyed or surprised, or perhaps a bit of both, that Astor's scent was in here, too.

"Okay." She retreated a step, not wanting to put her back to the opening they'd revealed. Splitting her attention between the secret passage and the witch and wizard with her, she said, "Go on, summon your Patronus. Once we've sent the message to Patricia and Mr. Malfoy, we'll scout this out."

Astoria nodded, focusing on her casting. Draco pivoted to look at Hermione in the wand's light.

Meeting his gaze, she asked, "What?"

"I just . . . ." Wincing, he shook his head. This was not a subject he actually _wanted_ to discuss. "How can you two be so close—" that was the nearest he wanted to get to saying what they'd actually been up to—"yet still refer to each other formally?"

"Well, we, um . . . ." Hermione didn't have an answer for that. They'd never discussed it. In a way, she actually sort of liked it. It was their _thing_. But she wasn't sure she could explain that to Draco in a way he was ready to understand, let alone accept.

Finding him looking at her expectantly, she frowned. "Oh, shut up."


	110. Chapter 110

**Chapter One Hundred Ten**

Lucius' eyes narrowed in thought as he lowered his wand. Pure instinct, the way he'd aimed before even fully turning toward the door. But when he found himself facing a Patronus, he could only stare at the dove made of silver-blue wisps and crackles of light.

Patricia gasped, her eyes huge. "I haven't seen one in so long! I forgot how pretty they are," she whispered.

"We reached the end of our search when Hermione found seams in the walls," Astoria's voice was soft as it came from the dove's unmoving beak. "Check for secret passages. Remain on your guard."

Having delivered its message, the dove faded from sight. Lucius nodded. He continued to be impressed with the caliber of witch his son had found for himself. And continued to wonder where Astoria found the patience to deal with his son.

Meeting Patricia's gaze—her mauve-grey eyes still brimming with wonderment in the wake of Astoria's Patronus—he said, "All right, to searching the walls, then."

Giving herself a shake, Patricia nodded. "You know," she started, keeping herself calm despite the maddening idea that she might discover a hidden room where her father was simply waiting for them, "I think I remember there being passages in the house."

"Of course you do." He took a wall opposite the one she was searching. "Most ancestral homes have such secrets. You don't recall accessing them yourself? Or perhaps seeing your father do so?"

She stiffened, her fingers freezing against the dark wood surface. "You mean aside from the room he locked me in?"

Lucius dropped his head, immediately abashed at his forgetfulness. "I'm sorry. You simply . . . well, it must be said. You seem worlds away from that frightened creature we found beneath the mausoleum. It's difficult, now, to equate you with the young woman who suffered so in that room."

The vampire-witch shifted her weight as she considered his words. "I suppose I understand. And I shall take that as a compliment, then."

"Thank you," he said, quite relieved to not have insulted her . . . or wounded her. Miss Granger would joke that she was proud of him for thinking of another's feelings—an ability she probably wasn't certain he possessed—but his great-aunt had been through enough in the course of her existence without his thoughtlessness adding on.

"Back to your question," Patricia continued, obviously choosing to put the unpleasant flash of memory behind her. "Aside from the room, which was originally . . . I suppose a sort of antechamber to the oubliette more than an actual 'room,' and the oubliette, itself, I don't recall anything. Though, Father did seem to find his way from one part of the house to another without crossing paths with anyone in any place one would expect."

Lucius offered a pensive frown. "I suspect he intentionally kept the information to himself, then. Likely because having a greater knowledge of the manor and its secrets made him feel important. What a strange, _small_ man."

Patricia laughed, a soft sound that was also strangely rich. A well-deserved chuckle at her father's expense. "Yes, I suppose he is."

He found a seam, but it wasn't an opening, so he followed it by touch. "I do wonder something. It might be a painful subject for you, but it _is_ one you must ponder."

"Hmm?" the breathed sound floated over as she was preoccupied with her own search.

"Hugh. If . . . _when_ we find him, if he's still 'alive,' there's a chance he might still want you to fulfill your promise."

"Oh." It was the only response she could muster for the thought.

Lucius didn't want to discuss this with her, it was heart wrenching, even for all his attempts at appearing stoic, but she needed to be braced for the possibility or she'd never survive such an outcome. "What will you do if he hasn't changed his mind on that?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a small, sad smile curving her lips. "I'll try to convince him I'm worth surviving for."

Her answer was strangely heartening, and he thought that perhaps the presence of Miss Granger and Astoria had been a good influence on her, after all.


	111. Chapter 111

**Chapter One Hundred Eleven**

Astoria did not like this. Oh, not the overall situation—there were many things about the overall situation with which she was strangely fine. Various levels of pleased, actually.

The thrill of mystery at uncovering secret places in the ancestral home of one the most prominent Sacred Twenty-Eight families? Pleased. Assisting her new family? Pleased. Sharing this adventure with Draco? Definitely pleased. Helping Patricia find Hugh? Also definitely pleased.

The potential ending of Astor Malfoy? _Very_ definitely pleased.

No, no. Those things were all and good. It was _this_ , being the one stuck in the middle as they shuffled single file along the cramped corridor. Hermione took point, because that simply made the most sense, but Astoria could've taken up the rear, backpedaling behind Hermione and Draco to keep a wand trained on the entrance in case this was a trap. But _no,_ Draco was handling that task _. S_ o here she was, pretty much useless and protected.

Unbelievable.

She was sure if things got too sticky, she'd be grateful for the consideration after-the-fact, but now? It annoyed her, not because it made her _feel_ vulnerable, but because it made her feel that _they_ thought of her that way. She knew that wasn't actually the truth of it, it was simply a matter of Draco having more practical combat experience and Hermione being, well, a bloody honest-to-God vampire.

Despite the uneasy, anxiety-fueled tension thick in the air as they crept along in the darkness, she sighed. It was a bit restless, simply waiting to find something, or for something to happen.

Which, of course, was when something _did_ happen.

Her toe struck something and she halted, lowering her wand. It made sense that whatever it was, the vampire-witch a few feet ahead had missed it. The item seemed stuck in the crux of the wall and the floor, and Hermione's footfalls were so careful and precise now.

Kneeling, Astoria brought her subdued Lumos charm closer to the item.

At the loss of one set of the steps behind him as he walked backward, Draco stilled and looked over his shoulder. "What're you doing?" he asked, his voice soft as he glanced back at her over his shoulder.

Cognizant of Astoria pausing as well, Hermione turned to face them while Draco's question filled the narrow passage.

Astoria frowned. "There's something here." Brushing it with her fingers, she said, "It's some sort of fabric. Old, I think, but it's wedged between boards, somehow. I think I can get it out, though. Might be important," she tacked on, wondering if perhaps Astor had dragged Hugh, or the corpse that might be his long-deceased wife through here. "Maybe Patricia will recognize it."

In the dim light, Hermione met Draco's gaze. There was a moment of mutual realization. Knowing what they did about the house, the idea of something being 'wedged' between the wall and floorboards could only mean—

"Astoria, wait!" they shouted in the same breath at the exact moment that the wood before her buckled outward.

Their shared words were drowned out by the panicked sound tearing from Astoria's throat as she tumbled down.


	112. Chapter 112

**Chapter One Hundred Twelve**

Hermione didn't see much choice—there was no way to know where this lead, and Astoria could be in danger. "Bollocks," she hissed under her breath.

After a muffled oomph from somewhere below, Astoria' voice filtered upward, " _I'm okay . . . I think . . . just a bit banged and bruised. No idea where I am, though. It's black as pitch down here and I dropped my wand when I hit the ground. I know it's down here with me, but can't find it."_

"Hang on!" the pair still in the secret corridor called down in unison.

As Hermione stepped toward the now-open trapdoor, Draco grabbed her arm.

Snapping her gaze up to lock on his, she started to explain, but he cut her off.

"If someone's going in there after her, it should be me. You need to go find Father and Patricia. Even if you get lost or turned 'round, you can get to them the quickest, _and_ you're the one who's mostly likely to survive on your own if that sick bastard catches you, but Astoria and me? She and I only stand a chance together. There _is_ no other plan. Go!"

For a fraction of a second, Hermione could only gape at him. "Draco Malfoy, I do believe I haven't given you enough credit for growth since Hogwarts."

He snickered as he stepped toward the door in her place. "I suppose Astoria gets the blame for that, she's corrupted me, entirely."

" _Um, hullo? A little help would be nice if it's not too much trouble?"_ Astoria's voice held just the tiniest edge of exasperation.

Draco's face fell—an expression that said he understood perfectly well how much trouble he'd be in if he didn't get down there in the next few seconds. "Well, at least we know she's safe," he said before recasting his Lumos charm.

Grasping his wand tight, he lowered himself into the trapdoor's opening, his fingers clinging to the edge. "Watch out for the light, I'm coming down now," he called out before relinquishing his grip on the wall and letting himself drop down.

Hermione leaned close as she listened. There was a thud that made her wince, followed by a grumble she quite recognized. "You okay down there?"

Astoria's relieved voice was the first response. " _Oh, there's my wand!"_

" _We're okay,"_ Draco shouted up, his tone a bit gruff, telling Hermione he was climbing to his feet, _"we'll look around, but stay close to where the tunnel lets out. Go get Father and Patricia. . . . Never should've split up in the first bloody place."_

Hermione held in a growl. "I didn't hear anyone else coming up with plans at the time, did you?"

" _No, you're right. That's fair. Now_ go."

"Just making sure you're okay, bloody hell. _Clearly_ you are."

Hermione exited the passage. She didn't dare take off at top speed until she was back in the main part of the house. Not knowing the layout as well as a Malfoy, she might slam into a wall.

Slam into it, and then—considering her luck—her new sturdiness combined with her speed would allow her to run right _through_ any such obstacle and she'd be responsible for the destruction of yet another wall in Malfoy Manor.

Lucius might brush it off, but she was beginning to think Draco, growth notwithstanding, wouldn't be above issuing her a bill for property damage when this was all over.


	113. Chapter 113

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, having another one of those 'don't really have the energy to write' nights, so a short chapter it is.

**Chapter One Hundred Thirteen**

Patricia was strangely disappointed to not come across any hidden passages or secret rooms in the wing she was searching with Lucius thus far. Not that she particularly _wanted_ to happen upon her father looming in some dark, unknown alcove simply waiting to be discovered by one of them, but somehow this exploration made her feel closer to the house. More than she ever had whilst she'd still been breathing, in any case.

Perhaps discovering new things, herself, would help her to view the manor in a new light, and permit her to put the torments she'd suffered in this very same house firmly in the past.

As she and Lucius ventured back down from the attic—looking for seams in the walls along the way—she spied a shape moving rapidly in the distance.

Instinct taking over, she grabbed the front of Lucius' robes and pulled him back behind the bend in the wall of the stairwell. Though he hadn't seen what she had—he couldn't possibly, it was much too dark in that far-long end of the corridor for his human eyes— he could here the faint whoosh of rushing wind. The sound became only slightly less-faint very fast.

It was getting closer.

He extinguished his Lumos charm, readying himself to attack.


	114. Chapter 114

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for continuing to be understanding about the 'shorter than your average drabble' chapters. Your support is appreciated 😊

**Chapter One Hundred Fourteen**

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she reached the opposite end of the house. She'd gotten turned 'round—just as Draco predicted—at least three times before finding her way back through the east wing of the second floor, and as she'd started down the corridor of the third floor, she swore she'd spied movement at the very end of the wing.

Movement there, then gone again sooner than she could get a clear idea of what—or who—it was.

Pausing for a moment, she listened. Got her bearings. No further suspicious movement followed. Which would've made her suspicious, if not for the fact that she'd not come across Patricia and Mr. Malfoy, yet. Unless something horrible had befallen them—and she highly doubted that would've happened without one of them figuring a way to get a message to herself and the others.

But just in case they were up in the attic level somewhere and what she'd just seen was exactly the one they were hunting going after them . . . . She took off at a silent run again, crossing the corridor in the space of only a few human heartbeats.

As she drew nearer to the end, she finally heard something. An inhalation.

And then the absence of it—breath held in anticipation of an action.

Eyes wide, she halted and dropped to the floor.

Lucius wheeled around the bend in the wall, wand aimed. The hex he was about to hurl died on his lips when he saw the empty darkness before him.

Noticing the witch huddled on the floor, his brows shot up as he illuminated his wand. "Miss Granger?" He wasted no time helping her to her feet—and ignoring that a vampire likely did not need any such assistance, it _was_ common courtesy! "What're you doing here? Where are Draco and Astoria?"

She met his gaze, eyes still wide. Vampire or not, thank _God_ they had both maintained their combative reflexes or she dreaded to think what would've just happened. "Where's Patricia?"

"Here," the blonde said in a bubbly whispered shout while she bounced out from behind Lucius, as though Hermione hadn't just narrowly escaped a potential massacre at the hands of her own lover.

"Oh, well . . . ." Hermione grabbed them both by the wrist and started pulling them back the way she came. She explained as they went.

Lucius very much did not like that Miss Granger dragging him _and_ Patricia somehow morphed into the pair of vampire-witches dragging _only_ him along at a speed he'd not have been able to achieve moving on his own power.

Once they reached the secret passage and the young women drew to a halt, he wrenched his arms from their grasp. "Honestly," he said in an airy, affronted whisper as he caught his breath.

Hermione folded her lips, trying not to laugh at the way he fussed with smoothing out his sleeves. "In here." She turned and led the way into the cramped tunnel.

"Is it still here?" Patricia asked as she followed, leaving Mr. Malfoy to trail behind them.

"What?"

"The fabric Astoria found."

Hermione halted, glancing around on the floor. "Oh, here." The scrap of material must've gone flying after the trapdoor opened. She swooped down to retrieve it.

Taking it eagerly, Patricia ran her fingertips carefully over the soft, dry cloth. Expression pensive, she held it close to her nose and took a long sniff.

Hermione's heart broke for the joy that filled the blonde's face. "Hugh," was all she said—all she needed to say—in way of explanation.

Clearing her throat, Hermione turned her attention to the trapdoor. "You two okay down there?"

After a moment, Draco's voice came up. " _I don't know why I'm surprised you're back so fast from the opposite end of an_ enormous _manor_."

" _Stow the snark, Draco_ ," Astoria's hiss was audible in the silence. " _You three need to get down here_ ," she said, her usually gentle voice serious. " _Quick_."


	115. Chapter 115

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes right, ten more chapters after this! EEK! Well, if not, that'll mean more than ten, so I'm sure you'll still be happy XD

**Chapter One Hundred Fifteen**

Lucius hit the ground with a bit of a graceless thud. Normally, such a thing might not have bothered him, mostly due to the awareness that he was only human _and_ he'd probably moved with more finesse than one might expect of any wizard in such a situation.

_Normally_.

But normally did not include being followed through the trapdoor, down the short yet wildly uncomfortable tunnel, and into the room-length drop below by two vampires. Much to his irritation, the human limit of his own poise was decidedly overshadowed by the way Patricia and Miss Granger landed, hitting the ground on the balls of their feet, knees bent and arms out instinctively for added balance. They each bounced up to stand in a smooth motion that nearly looked synchronized.

When surrounded by people who moved like jungle cats, it was no wonder the average human might feel as though they were lumbering about like a ruddy baboon.

Hoping to regain some dignity, he stood a bit straighter, snapping the front of his robes in a quick, refined gesture. "What is it you needed us to see? And please, God, tell me you've found a way out of here. I imagine leaving the same way we came in would be tricky." The place smelled like a barn long fallen into disuse.

Draco stood across the room, his illuminated wand held over his head like a beacon. In the periphery of the light's gleam, Astoria knelt on the floor beside something.

Draco never got a chance to respond as Patricia crossed the floor in a blink. He jumped a little, visibly unsettled to find her so close so fast.

Hermione moved to stand next to Mr. Malfoy as she watched. If her heart still beat, she didn't know if she'd feel it breaking or lodging in her throat.

Patricia knelt opposite Astoria, examining the dark shape on the floor. Astoria kept her wand to her side, and Hermione realized why—or, at least, hoped she did. She didn't _want_ to hope, however, in case she was wrong.

Her first night as a vampire, the simplest light charm hurt her eyes. What might even the most subtle light be like on the eyes of someone trapped in this dark nothing for centuries?

Grasping the shape gently, Patricia turned it in her arms. "Hugh?" Her voice was impossibly soft in the weighty silence of the room. "He's in such awful shape," she said to the others as she looked him over, tears clogging her throat. "I can't even tell if he's—"

"M . . . my love?" the words fell from the shape's worn lips in a dry rasp.

"Oh, dear Lord," Patricia breathed the words, her tone heavy with equal parts hope and disbelief.

"We have to get him out of here." Mr. Malfoy immediately illuminated his own wand in search of an exit. If ever there were a time for thinking on their feet . . . . "We need a plan; we can't risk running into Astor with Hugh in this condition. We still can't ignore that this might all have been an elaborate trap."

"Dispel your wards."

He turned to meet Miss Granger's gaze. "From within the house? Do you have any idea how much magical energy it would require to dispel from a distance like that?"

Hermione nodded. She placed her hand over his on his wand, so that her skin, too, connected with the bare, polished wood. "I know. So use mine. Heaven knows I apparently have loads stored up I'm doing not much of anything with. _Then_ we can Apparate back to my house. Untraceable travel."

Draco and Astoria looked from Lucius to Hermione and back. "Is that possible?"

Lucius regarded his son for a moment, shrugging in answer to his question before he and Miss Granger raised his wand in a combined movement. "We're all about to find out."


	116. Chapter 116

**Chapter One Hundred Sixteen**

No one was quite prepared for the reaction of the wards to the couple's concerted attempt at dispelling them. There was a sound over the house like a crack of thunder, followed by the very air around them shivering and sparking for a few strained seconds.

Lucius looked about, grey eyes showing white all around. "Did it work?"

Astoria placed a hand on Hugh's desiccated shoulder to pull him Side-Along with her. "Only one way to find out. If Astor's still here, there's no way he didn't hear that. I'll take Hugh first, since he's the most vulnerable. If this works, Draco will follow with Patricia, and then Lucius and Hermione after."

Closing her eyes, she looked to be in prayer as she whispered, "Here goes."

Patricia sagged against Draco's side as Astoria Disapparated, and Hugh disappeared right along with her. "Oh, thank goodness," her low, breathy voice was choked with relieved tears. "He'll be safe now."

The pair certainly had _appeared_ to vanish without issue. Everyone looked about for signs of splinching. No blood, no accidentally severed limbs or digits. A collective breath seemed to escape the room as they all let go of what tension they had held in the wake Astoria and Hugh's vanishing.

"Provided it actually worked and doesn't simply _look_ like it worked." Draco sighed, readying his wand.

At Patricia's horrified gasp in response to her great-nephew's less-than-supportive statement, Hermione and Lucius each pinned Draco with a glare. Meeting their gazes with wide eyes, he clumsily tacked on, "Which—" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Which is why we're going to hurry after them right now to make sure they arrived safely!" Without another word, he wound his arm around Patricia's drooping shoulders and pulled her Side-Along.

When they, too, seemed to have Disapparated safely, Lucius turned his attention to Hermione. "Well, Miss Granger? Ready."

She nodded. "I just hope magical travel didn't cause Hugh any further harm. I didn't get a very good look at him, but even I could see he's in pretty terrible shape." Wobbling in place a moment, she pressed her hand to her head. Closing her eyes, tried to hold onto her bearings. "I think the dispellment took more out of me than I thought."

Lucius returned her nod, anchoring her to his side. "I've got you. We'll handle that as soon as we know everyone else got back unharmed."

There was a sound from somewhere in the house then. _Astor_.

Hermione's unbeating heart chilled with realization. He _had_ been in the house the entire time. He'd likely been waiting for them to try to leave under the assumption that he was long gone.

He could not possibly have expected the anti-Apparition wards to fall, freeing them to leave from without crossing his path. And he could not track them through magical travel, either.

At last, they had the upper hand.

"Just in the nick of time," Mr. Malfoy said, Disapparating with Hermione at his side.


	117. Chapter 117

**Chapter One Hundred Seventeen**

When they appeared in Hermione's backyard—thankfully unharmed, a good sign for how the rest of the group had fared—it was apparent everyone else had already gone inside. The vampire-witch sagged heavily into Lucius' side before he could even take a step.

"Miss Granger?" he asked, aware she was weak since she'd told him as much, yet alarmed all the same.

"I'm . . . I'm okay," she answered, the whispered words forming slow, sluggish. Her eyes drifted closed and she had no care at this moment to force them open again. "But I don't think I've any strength left."

Putting away his wand, Lucius scooped her up into his arms and started toward the house. " _Oh, use my magical energy, it'll be fine,_ " he said, affecting a high-pitched tone. "Now look at you."

She breathed a snicker, letting her head drop against his shoulder. "I don't sound like that and that's not what I said."

"Near enough; you really should be more careful with yourself, Miss Granger."

"I'll start that _after_ we finally catch—and end—Astor, thanks very much." She could feel the slight sway in his long-legged gait as he climbed the steps of the back porch. "Right now, we need to focus on getting Hugh back on his feet."

"The others can care for him for a little while, my focus is _you_."

A sleepy grin curved her lips. "Bet before all this happened, you never imagined you'd say something like that to me."

He carefully maneuvered her in his arms to open the door without jostling her. "And I would bet that before this, you'd never have imagined you'd . . . ." Ducking his head close to hers, he continued in a murmur, "Well, perhaps it would best not to speak such thoughts aloud in front of others, hmm?"

Hermione knew if she had enough blood, a blush would've flooded her cheeks at his gravelly-pitched insinuation.

"Is she okay?" Astoria's voice met Hermione's ears.

Mr. Malfoy's tone changed immediately, so that he sounded all business. "Yes, just taxed from the dispellment. I'll worry about her. How's Hugh?"

Astoria circled them, closing the door and locking it behind them. "We put him in the guest room Patricia's using; she and Draco are in there with him. He's . . . I _want_ to say he's not good, but—since according to Patricia, vampires can't starve to death—I think we can safely assume he's already a little better simply being somewhere safe. However, we've got to get some blood in him if he's going to start healing. If he's permanently injured or disabled in some way, we have no way of knowing until he's, well . . . fully capable of functioning."

No one mentioned how terrible it was that Hugh had been suffering in the secret bowels of Malfoy Manor all this time and none of them'd had _any_ idea. So much life and chaos and _existence_ had happened while he'd been beneath them, alone in the dark for literal centuries.

That was too sad to consider. Hermione changed gears. She didn't know if she hated or appreciated the way they all talked about vampires not as living creatures so much as 'functioning beings.' True, she was the one who started it, but still. She couldn't help wondering if at some point that distinction would become more noteworthy and—for lack of a better term—separating than she wanted it to be.

Well, _that_ wasn't much better, was it?

"We created a blood conjuring charm," she said softly, deciding to banish the only slightly less depressing thought. "We used it for Patricia, and so given how well she's doing, we have to assume it's safe and—more importantly—nourishing for one of us."

"It's getting late. Well, early, I suppose. So, we'll secure the curtains _first_ and then handle feeding them, both, while Lucius tends to you." Astoria drew her wand. "All right, my soon-to-be Father-in-Law. Teach me the charm."


	118. Chapter 118

**Chapter One Hundred Eighteen**

Hermione realized she must've drifted off moments after—or perhaps even during—speaking to Astoria, as it seemed one moment they were downstairs and the next, she was on her bed. She barely had the strength to move, so she settled for watching as Mr. Malfoy closed the door.

When Lucius turned toward her, he let out a sigh of relief. "Here I thought I'd have to wake you. We both know how _that's_ gone in the past."

"I'll remind you I wasn't in full control of my faculties then," she said quietly, once more only able to watch him, as he crossed the floor and sat on the bed.

"I'm aware." He opened the collar of his robes and stretched out on his back beside her. She had so little strength just now, and they both needed rest after the night they'd had—anything more than this was out of the question for now.

She didn't want to say it, because it could set a bad precedent, but she kind of liked how it felt when he slipped his arms around her as though she were something delicate, breakable. Kind of liked the way he moved her in light of her currently weakened state—turning her, pulling her into his side so that her chin was over his shoulder. Her face was so near the pulse in his throat, she could smell the blood beneath his skin.

The warmth of him pressed against her was intoxicating. Sort of dizzying. She could feel the strange, sweet release of her fangs elongating in response.

What she didn't expect, even after all they'd been through and, well, and _done_ over the last several days, was to feel his splayed fingers cupping the back of her head. He was being shockingly considerate of how weak she was, Hermione thought, as he guided her mouth to the side of his throat.

Unblemished skin met her lips and she hesitated, belatedly realizing this was the opposite side from her previous bites. "I—I thought you didn't want me making any new wounds."

"That was before we had people around us who knew our circumstances. Besides, with so much going on, we have no idea if not letting it heal properly might lead to infection."

"Ooh, yeah." She winced, giving a barely perceptible nod. "Of all the things we've considered _could_ happen, I don't think sepsis was anywhere on the list."

Mr. Malfoy uttered a derisive chuckle. "So much for the two of us being so clever."

"We're still clever," Hermione responded, leaning close once more. "We've just been distracted, is all."

His eyes drifted closed at the sensation of her cool lips moving against his skin. He tensed a moment, braced for the oddly satisfying pain of her fangs sinking into his throat. She withdrew just as fast—even the retreat of her teeth from the wound was somehow sweet—to start nursing his blood from the punctures.

Lucius was aware of the fine tremors wracking him as he tightened his arms around her. Aware of the blissful sigh that escaped his lips as he tipped his head to one side the settle his cheek against her hair.

All right, perhaps it was time he admit to himself that he _did_ enjoy this part of it, too. Just as much as the other factors in the dynamic between them. Perhaps more. There was a sense of connection in this that defied explanation.

And he no longer cared for explanations. No longer needed them. Strange . . . he'd always thought himself such a logical creature before this mess fell into his lap. But now, after what had it been a week? Yes, that sounded right, perhaps give or take a day.

Feeling sated, she lapped at the wounds affectionately before shifting just a little against him to pillow her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

He could tell she was asleep in mere seconds. Lucius let himself drift off, as well.

One week's time, and already he couldn't imagine this _not_ being his life.


	119. Chapter 119

**Chapter One Hundred Nineteen**

Hermione opened her eyes in the night-dark of the room, but didn't want to move. This was too pleasant, simply being held like this in the quiet.

It would be easy to think there'd been no peace since this began, but she knew that wasn't true. There had been many peaceful moments smattered throughout this madness, it was simply that the mad moments were, well, _extremely_ mad.

"I can tell you're awake, you know," Mr. Malfoy said with a snicker.

"Shhhh, just pretend you have no idea," she responded as she pressed her fingers over his lips in a silencing gesture.

"No, no. C'mon. We need to check the others, and the human members of the party need things like food, coffee."

Hermione sighed, turning her gaze to the ceiling. "Oh, I miss coffee."

Again he laughed. "Besides, I'm curious to learn how Hugh is healing."

She was on her feet before she even realized. "Right!"

Lucius only stared at her. He didn't know if he was alarmed or amused that she genuinely didn't realize how quick she moved. He nodded and pulled himself out of bed, as well. He had wanted to pretend they were both still sleeping, but there'd be plenty of time for lounging when this was over.

* * *

To his delight, the other 'humans in the party' had already seen to starting coffee and whatever passed for breakfast from a Muggle pantry on the stovetop by the time Lucius and Hermione came downstairs. She kept her distance at the kitchen doorway while he walked inside, invited by the smell of rich, dark roast.

"Where're Patricia and Hugh?"

"The den," Astoria answered while slapping Draco's fingers away from a pan. "He's not one hundred percent yet, but certainly seems on the road to recovery."

Hermione nodded, thinking the other two wise for avoiding the spectacle of humans eating food, and excused herself.

When she reached the entryway of the den, however, she wondered if she wasn't intruding. The room beyond was silent, and she felt she knew what she would see when she rounded the bend in the wall.

They finally had each other back after so long. After believing they would never have this again.

She could feel her eyes threatening to well up just thinking about it. Swallowing hard, she willed her tears away before she could lose even a single droplet of blood.

Knocking lightly on the wall beside the entryway, she called inside. "It's Hermione. Am I interrupting?"

"Oh!" Patricia was suddenly before Hermione and tugging her into the room by her wrist. "I'm so glad you're here, I've been waiting!"

In the center of the sofa, Hugh sat. He appeared strangely human, a quilt around him and a bowl of magically conjured blood clasped between his hands as he lifted it for slow, measured sips.

Hermione actually gasped at the difference, her stilled heart feeling light. "So, you're Hugh?"

He lifted his gaze to hers—the same vivid green eyes Hermione remembered from Patricia's blood, currently ringed with crimson—and lowered the bowl. He smiled slowly and she realized he was doing everything slowly.

It might be days before he had his strength back.

"And you're Hermione? Patricia and the humans speak very highly of you."

Her throat felt tight. She was so happy for Patricia she wasn't sure she could speak.

"If it weren't for you, I'd never have known that all this time he was . . . ." Patricia was suddenly on the verge of tears. "He was _right_ there! Oh my God! Excuse me, I need to . . . go get some more blood!" The blonde vanished from the room.

Hermione watched the spot where Patricia had been standing only a second earlier. After a moment, she tore her gaze free and looked up at Hugh. He was staring at the entryway, smiling wistfully.

Hermione couldn't help herself that the first question she had for the poor man was, "Has she always been like this?"

That smile widened as he slowly lifted the bowl for another sip of blood, those green eyes so full of love it hurt to look at him as he said, "Yes, always."


	120. Chapter 120

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One Hundred Twenty. OMG, we're almost at the end, people!

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty**

Hermione felt herself on Venn diagram, standing on the conjoined area that marked _fear_ , _joy_ , _sadness_ , and _abject horror_ in equal measure as she sat beside Lucius listening to Hugh's story.

Abject horror on Hugh's behalf—she could not begin to imagine what it must've been like to live in that silent darkness for so long. Sadness for how terrible Patricia clearly still felt at never having known he'd survived all this time. Joy for their reunion; it seemed every time they were in the same room they needed to be touching in some fashion—holding hands, stroking hair back from cheeks with gentle fingertips, shoulders pressing against each other for how close they sat whenever she stopped her flustered running about long enough to claim a seat beside him upon the sofa. Not at all unlike herself and Mr. Malfoy now that she considered it.

And _fear._

The fear came from listening to Hugh's voice. Strong, steady. She recalled how only last night it had been no more than a rasping whisper. He was consuming so much conjured blood that the witch and wizards were taking turns creating fresh bowls so no one would deplete too much of their magical energy. Hermione dreaded to consider that were he more predatory—perhaps like Astor—he'd have torn through a small village to equate the amount he'd gone through.

But it wasn't the stopping every few words to take another healthy gulp—and he still wasn't one hundred percent, as made obvious by the bruises lining his cheekbones and darkening the skin beneath his eyes.

It was that he was sane.

Just as Patricia had been sane—if whimsical and flighty—after she'd had a decent helping of blood. As if the torments of intermittent starvation had never befallen her.

Hermione was terrified because it meant the entire time he'd been trapped like that, he'd had his faculties. There'd been no eventual madness to cushion or distract. Nothing to make him not feel the relentless, frustrating passage of time. Only sleep. And then waking in that same void, clawing his away across a floor his body long ago became too numb to feel in hopes of discovering a way out.

It terrified her that if something like that ever happened to her, she'd be conscious of the passing of time, just as he'd been. Just as Patricia had been, in that crypt—oh my god, that was the perfect word, wasn't it? Not home, or catacombs or lair, but _crypt_!—with her father choosing to trap and starve her at his twisted leisure.

Yet, as she watched him, with the so-human way he moved now, lifting his arm in a pained gesture to loop around Patricia, Hermione noted how much his body had filled out over the last not-yet-twenty-four hours. It was the blood. He'd been emaciated, but the blood had helped replenish everything, his organs and muscles regenerating and plumping with new life.

"Of course," she said in a shocked whisper. "That would include the brain."

After the words had fallen from her lips, she felt the weight of everyone's gazes on her. She looked about. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"I was nearly finished, anyway," Hugh said, his tone gentle.

"I was wondering why it is that you both seem so sharp after the strain of time and starvation and loneliness you went through. And it occurred to me that just as the blood is healing your bodies, it would do the same for your brain, as it's also an organ the tissue would regenerate just as the rest of you. Your senses might've left for a bit, but as soon as you were strong enough, you regain them. It's remarkable, really."

After her explanation, Hermione still felt a bit awful. She hadn't meant to get so distracted by her own thoughts. What was the last thing she remembered him saying?


	121. Chapter 121

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One**

He'd backtracked through events as far as the night Patricia had fled the manor, Hermione remembered that. Remembered him speaking in a positively wretched tone about Patricia trying so hard to take his life, but she'd not caused enough damage. Seeing how much it had hurt her to try, he pretended she'd succeeded so she would not have to pain herself further by making a second attempt.

Astor had found him after that. When he refused to speak on where Patricia had gone or what had happened to the other vampires—Astor, unfortunately, was not stupid, and he'd pieced together easily enough that his daughter was behind this—his captor decided on a new _experiment_. One final test of fortitude that hadn't been possible in the subterranean level of the house.

Finally unchaining him—not that it did Hugh any favors, gravely injured and too weak to help himself much, as it was—Astor began dragging him through the house. Not with magic, oh no, that would've been too gentle and easy. Instead, he'd gripped his hands around the vampire's neck and pulled him along the floor, up the stairs, through corridors.

As if he'd had all the time in the world to bring Hugh up to the top floor of the manor from where the roof was accessible.

With all he'd survived thus far, Hugh understood the drop _would_ end him.

Somehow, that awareness shot some strength through him. Only enough to wrench himself free of Astor's grip and stumble away. He could see the seams in the walls and lurched toward them, hoping the darkness of the house would confuse his captor's human eyes, but he wasn't moving fast enough. Astor was two steps behind him as Hugh wobbled his way through the secret passage.

Forcing himself to move faster only tripped him up. He barreled straight down through the trapdoor, the sleeve of his shirt snagging on the corner of the door as it shut behind him—he still recalled the way his arm had snapped upward for a brief second as he'd fallen.

He remembered hitting the ground. Remembered the creak of the trapdoor above opening again. Remembered the sound of Astor tsk'ing. The bastard had called out to him and when Hugh didn't answer—the shock rendering him speechless—Astor Malfoy had assumed him finally dead.

"I can only guess he considered the retrieval of my body pointless," he said, his voice stronger, still, than mere moments ago. "He already had whatever answers his 'research' could provide, and as I understand it, he never removed the others' bodies from the oubliette. He probably thought one more skeleton beneath the house wasn't going to make a difference."

"Two." Astoria blinked rapidly a few times, not really looking at anyone as she nodded. "Remember? You all thought Hugh was dead along with the others, because there had been eight vampires, and there were eight skeletons chained up."

"Wha . . . ?" Hugh breathed out the half-word, the sound heavy with disbelief. "That madman killed yet _another_ person and stuck him down there?"

"Her," Patricia offered, darting her gaze away from him. "I think it's my mother."

"It would make sense, actually, with his vindictive streak," Lucius said, his voice full of loathing. "Probably an act in retaliation for letting Patricia free in the first place."

"It's surprising the rest of you Malfoys are so sane."

Hermione snorted a quick laugh at Hugh's comment.

"Hell, even I know that's a _bit_ questionable," Draco said with a sigh, shaking his head, "however, the sentiment is appreciated. But the point remains, he _is_ a madman. We can't leave him out there. I mean, it's obvious when he thought he was in control of something he was controlled, too. But now he's lost Patricia, he never actually _had_ Granger, and we foiled whatever trap he wanted to spring on us on our way out of the manor. We need a plan. He's probably still there, coming up with his own plan on how to deal with us."


	122. Chapter 122

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two**

Nodding, Hermione frowned in thought. "You're right. He's probably had a relatively easy existence the last three centuries, and then I come along and now it's a mess."

"We do have one thing on our side he never considered," Hugh said, taking a moment to look at each of them in turn. "The element of surprise. He knows Patricia is sentimental—"

"Oh my God! I left my jewelry box there," Patricia interrupted just then, perfectly oblivious to how well she'd was illustrating her love's point. Her perfect face hardened into a vicious scowl. "He'd better not touch a single piece in it!"

Hermione and Astoria exchanged a glance, both amused by the blonde's demeanor. Hermione could sense it quite easily that she and Astoria had each grown rather fond of her.

For his part, Hugh grinned at her, gently clasping her hand in his again. "As I was saying, Astor knows his daughter is sentimental. He's no idea I—"

"Wait, but Hermione and Patricia track scents in a way that puts bloodhounds to shame, he'll do the same," Draco interrupted, shaking his head. "When he tracks all of us to that same trapdoor and finds you gone, what's he going to think?"

Hugh looked about the room at the gathered party before meeting Lucius' gaze. "Do you lot _always_ interrupt one another this way?"

"Seems we can't hold a conversation without it," the wizard answered with an exhausted chuckle. He was aware of—and completely ignoring—the way Hermione turned her head beside him to fix him with narrowed eyes.

"It's amazing you get anything done," Hugh mused, lifting the bowl with his free hand for another sip before he continued. "While Astor might consider that Patricia still felt betrayed by her mother and so left _her_ there, he's just as likely to assume she took my remains from the house."

"Then we can't waste time." Hermione shrugged. "We can go with the same plan we originally had, since we didn't really go with it in the first place. Use me to lure him into the open, and then . . . oh, oh this is good!" Suddenly she was on her feet, pacing the room as she held some quick internal conversation.

"This happen a lot, too, I take it?"

Lucius held in another laugh at Hugh's question, answering with a nod.

She ignored their moment of camaraderie, though she was touched by it. "How much longer before you're fully healed up, do you think?"

Hugh spared a moment to take stock of himself and shrugged. "Actually, with all the blood provided, I'm healing much faster than expected. I should be up and about within a few more hours."

"That works. Draco, Astoria, and Mr. Malfoy, you three are trained duelists _and_ have plenty of actual combat experience, Astor believes he still holds sway over Patricia. He has no idea I can still use magic, or that Hugh is alive. We use those things to our advantage."

A smirk curved Lucius' lips. He was never going to tire of her cleverness. Sitting forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands before him. "Well, Miss Granger? We're all listening. What're we going to do with all these things he doesn't know?"

Hermione couldn't help returning his mischievous expression; it was strangely adorable, him asking as though he'd no idea where her mind was going with this. It was for the benefit of the others, after all.

She looked at each of them. Patricia Malfoy, like the younger sister she never had, Hugh—who's last name she had no idea of—Patricia's returned from the dead sweetheart who seemed to be forging a fast friendship with Lucius, Draco Malfoy her former bully and academic rival, and Astoria Greengrass, with whom Hermione, herself, was becoming fast friends, it seemed.

She'd never have imagined herself standing here a week ago.

Smiling, she spread her hands. "We're going to put on a show. But first, I'll need a new wand."


	123. Chapter 123

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three**

Poor, exhausted Garrick Olivander rubbed at his tired old eyes with the back of one hand as he led her into the shop. He hadn't expected to find Hermione Granger on his doorstep as he prepared for bed, however, and he'd known something was off about the young woman—something different from when last he'd seen her.

After swearing him to secrecy, she revealed why. He considered he'd have probably panicked in his younger years, or had she acted at all like some sort of mythical, bloodthirsty monster. Yet, she behaved exactly like the witch he remembered.

Oh, perhaps he should've turned her away, but when she explained that she could still tap into her magic in this state . . . . Well, he couldn't deny that he was curious about what sort of wand would select a vampire-witch as its owner.

And so, he'd changed out of his nightclothes back into proper robes and returned to his shop, the young woman in tow. Not trusting that his lights being on at this hour wouldn't draw curious parties, he was quick to shutter the windows and lock the door behind her.

Now he walked along the aisles, watching the shelves and listening as he went. The wands always knew when a customer in need stood had entered the establishment. As much as he knew about them, he never did quite understand _how_ they knew; he simply accepted it as one of the many wonders of magic.

He was beginning to think perhaps there was no wand eager to give itself over to such a _unique_ owner. But as he reached the back of the shop—the wands here were older, crafted in his youth, he hardly made it this far when selecting a wand for a living customer—he heard something.

There was a faint hum emanating from inside one of the slender, dark brown boxes. He'd never thought he'd look upon one of his antique creations, again. His thick, white brows lifting, he pulled over the step ladder and retrieved it.

Hermione was honestly surprised when the elderly wizard returned to her with a box in his hands. He carefully lifted the lid, and held it out to her.

The polished grey-brown wood nestled against the velvet bed appeared . . . . "It's rather short, isn't it?"

Mr. Ollivander laughed softly and nodded. "In my youth, I was aware how many wizards believed the bigger the wand, the more potent the magic."

"Sounds like a few wizards I know," she said with a smirk.

The old man chuckled. "Indeed. I was trying to prove that wands could be more like scorpions, when crafted with enough care and precision. Do you know much about scorpions, Miss Granger?"

She held her hand out, her fingers hovering over the open box, with its wand that was barely 8 inches in length. "Not much, only that the smaller the scorpion, the more potent its venom."

"Then you understand my theory behind the design of such pieces. Unfortunately, wands often rebuke any potential owner who would not want them for a reason so superficial. Now, _this_ wand has asked for you. It must recognize that you make no such judgments, my dear."

Hermione swallowed hard, pulling a breath into her useless lungs as she curled her hand around the deceptively diminutive weapon and lifted it from its bedding. Her throat constricted at the tingly rush through her, the air around her pulsing with energy for the briefest moment.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed having a wand. It was a wonder she managed to hold back joyful tears.

Mr. Ollivander grinned, his aged eyes a bit misty to see one of his earliest creations finally claim a master. "7 and ¾ inches, yew . . . dragon heart string. But not just _any_ yew," he said, his awed whisper full of pride. "That wood comes from Perthshire, taken—gently—from what might be the most ancient tree in all of the British Isles. And it has chosen _you_."

* * *

The party waited just outside the Leaky Cauldron—they were concerned having Hermione Granger _in_ the pub with the Malfoys would raise too many eyebrows and they did not have time for questions. After watching the old wandmaker close up shop and Disapparate safely home, she returned to them, happily but secretively showing off her beautiful antique wand.

Patricia and Astoria _oohed_ over the high sheen of the polish and the intricate flower petals carved into the handle, Hugh didn't have an opinion since he'd been a Muggle in life. Both Malfoy men, however, arched a brow.

"It's a bit small, no?" Draco asked, his father nodding in agreement over his shoulder.

Hermione pursed her lips, exhaling a sigh through her nostrils. "Mr. Ollivander said you'd say something like that." _Wizards_.


	124. Chapter 124

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four**

"He's still here," all three vampires confirmed in the same breath after taking a long, deep inhale of the air outside Malfoy Manor.

They'd Apparated to the property as they would've had they not shattered the wards last night, giving them room to avoid Astor picking up their scents. Hermione and Patricia led everyone across the grounds, to where they could approach while remaining downwind of any person exiting the house.

There was no way this would work in an enclosed area, no matter how spacious.

The Malfoy wizards stationed themselves at a distance on either side Hermione, Patricia and Astoria, who stood in the gardens, squarely before the manor's backdoors.

"Astoria, if you would?"

Nodding, the witch touched her wand to Hermione's throat. They couldn't risk that he might be watching from somewhere unseen.

"Astor Malfoy?" Hermione projected her voice. "You may as well come out. I'm here with Patricia; you won't get another chance like this. We _refuse_ to exist in fear of you. I will _not_ go with you, and she will _not_ return to your side, so you'd better kill us!"

"Laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?" Astoria murmured as she lowered her wand, keeping it at the ready.

"With how much he enjoys causing fear and pain? Doubtful."

Several human heartbeats ticked past before Patricia shook her head. "Maybe he's trying to make us go inside?"

"No need." The voice that carried from within the doorway—no one had seen them open, they were closed and then not, the interior of the house beyond pitch black—was quiet, controlled as it carried through the air. "I'm quite tired of all this . . . excitement."

Hermione kept her features schooled, refraining from rolling her eyes. She knew for him, the word _excitement_ translated to 'circumstances beyond his control.'

He appeared in the doorway, as regal a figure as any of his line. Tall, silver-blond, stony gaze, irritatingly dignified posture . . . and he'd clearly helped himself to some fresh robes from his descendant's wardrobe.

"There you finally are," he said calmly. His gaze moved to Astoria. "What's this? Brought me a present, have you? And here I was beginning to suspect you didn't like me."

"I'm here to help them kick your arse!" Astoria just about snarled the words as she trained her wand on him.

"Really?" Astor smirked and stepped free of the doorway. He looked at his daughter and started walking toward them. "Is that so, _Patricia?_ Well, speak up now!"

The blonde's eyes shot wide and she backpedaled, a hard gulp that was rather loud against quiet night going down her throat. "I'm . . . . _I'm sorry_!"

"What?!" Astoria and Hermione asked at the same time.

"I can't do this," Patricia screamed, her eyes welling up. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't!"

Astoria immediately ran to her side, trying to calm her. Hermione returned her attention to the approaching vampire. "This was _not_ the plan," she hissed from the corner of her mouth, her wide eyes locked on him.

"Had a plan? For _me_? Oh, well, we see how smoothly _that's_ gone." Astor's tone was syrupy as he drew closer. "Where are your men?"

"Here!" Lucius and Draco drifted out of the gardens on either side of Astor. The resemblance between the three was startling.

" _Fuck_ ," Hermione said, her exasperated voice barely audible above Patricia's terrified sobs.

"We're going to kill you now," Lucius informed his ancestor, perfectly calm. "Pity, I'd have liked to know more about you, well, from _before_ you went mad and became the sadistic bastard you are now."

Astor sneered at the sight of Lucius' wand. "The Killing Curse won't work on me. I'm already dead."

"Maybe not, but I imagine two at once might do some damage," Draco responded.

Father and son, standing precisely opposite one another, cast the Curse in the same breath. Astor dodged the twin bolts of acid green. Hermione and Astoria screamed in horror as the Malfoy wizards dropped to the ground.


	125. Chapter 125

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, settle down. I wrote the entire confrontation scene yesterday in one-go, but due to word count, I had to cut it in half, producing chapters 124 & 125\. There was a lot of panic & a lot of 'what if...?' at the end of the 124, hence why I'm posting 125 so early today.

**Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five**

Astor used the diversion to close the distance, getting right in front of Hermione. "What was it you were saying about refusing to exist in fear? I wasn't _planning_ on giving you a choice."

Terrified red-brown eyes tore away from Lucius' prone form to meet Astor's cold gaze. "I know, it's not in your nature," she whispered, nodding. "I should never have thought the _Avada_ would work on you, 'cause you're right. We're already dead, aren't we?"

"Yes." He turned his head to look at Patricia, held by a now-sobbing-equally-loud Astoria. "But I'll offer you a gift. I'll let you decide what to do with my daughter and the witch."

He froze at the sensation of a wand point pressing into the soft flesh under his jaw.

Hermione went on as though he hadn't spoken. "We may not be alive, but we still feel pain. That _is_ what I thought would work on you. _Crucio!"_ Before all this, she'd never have thought herself capable of casting an Unforgivable, but she'd always had a little bit of a dark side. And if anyone was deserving of this sort of torment, it was _certainly_ Astor Malfoy.

Astor's features contorted in anguish as he tried to grab for her wand. He never saw the other three blasts of red energy streaking toward him. He dropped to his knees, trying still to fight the torment of it. Turning his head by small, shivering increments, he looked about. The wizards were on their, feet as was the witch, all wands trained on him. Patricia was wiping her cheeks, her expression glacial as she started walking toward him.

"Patricia," he hissed, voice barely audible above the static of the collective curses. "Help me! Help me and I'll forgive you for all your betrayals, _finally._ I swear it."

She paused for a step. Her grey-mauve gaze swept the scene. "Maybe . . . . Maybe that would be nice. Forgiveness . . . ."

"Patricia, no!" Hermione shouted, regaining Astor's attention.

"But I'm not the one who needs forgiveness," the blonde said, and her father was startled to see the look on the brunette's face hadn't changed. There was no shock there. No relief. No emotion at all to think Patricia had considered his offer.

Which meant she hadn't. This was all still their plan. Every second of it. They wanted him off kilter to the very end. He couldn't even turn to see who was ending him.

And then the pain stopped. Sooner than he could fall, his body starting to slump forward in the absence of the excruciating magical energy suspending him in place, a blow from behind punctured his back.

He could feel it. He could feel the hand enter beneath his shoulder blade. He could feel the fingers that gripped his heart and squeezed.

Patricia shook her head, her features smoothing into a peaceful mask. "Goodbye, Father."

"No! _N—!"_

Hugh wrenched his arm free, Astor Malfoy's unbeating heart clenched in a crushing grasp. He immediately dropped the useless organ to the ground and crushed its remains under his boot.

The sound of Astor hitting the ground was strangely deafening in the stillness. No one seemed to know precisely what to do or say as they all stared at the body.

While it was there . . . . Before their eyes, his skin aged, wrinkling and discoloring, sinking against the bones. His hair paled to a shocking white before it feel free of his scalp and drifted down to litter the grass.

That old skin, thin as old parchment, now started to crumble, scattering from the bones like ash.

"Oh," Hugh said in a low voice, nodding. "Well, that was unpleasant. No less than he deserved, though."

"We should bury him." Patricia shrugged. "Just anywhere, I don't care where. I don't want to look at any part of him anymore."

"I'm thinking we scatter the bones," Hermione tacked on. "Make extra certain he's never coming back."

"Agreed," the gathered party said as one

They were each happy—and perhaps just a bit disgusted—to take their own piece of Astor Malfoy's skeletal remains and find some far-flung place in the gardens or the woods that ringed the property to bury them. A bit deeper in the earth than was _strictly_ necessary, perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll see you all tomorrow for the epilogue! ^_^


	126. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art piece for the Epilogue features Patricia Malfoy <3

**Epilogue**

One week after Astor's death, Hermione wrote to Harry, fibbing just a little. She told him she'd be visiting London soon, and needed to let him know about something that had happened which he'd need to keep to himself. Of course she trusted him to do as requested, and was aware he would be under the impression it was something as simple as perhaps an unexpected pregnancy. And, _of course_ , she fudged the return address on the missive, making it look as though she were still out of town for the time being, as suggested in her letter.

Hugh's vampire-family and Patricia's mother received proper burials and a discreet renovation of Malfoy Manor's interior—and exploration of all hidden passages—had begun. They were still deciding what to do with the oubliette. The disappointments room was to be gutted, replaced with a second-floor sunroom. Patricia's idea; a bit of light to banish the darkness that'd occurred there.

Hugh no longer wished for death as he had before he'd turned Patricia. On the contrary, once he learned the sequence of events that had led to their reunion, he became taken with the idea that this was fate and embraced his new chance at existing. How else could such a random thing as a stranger to both of them spontaneously choosing to come home have resulted in two people the world didn't even know existed anymore finding each other again?

Patricia was introduced as a Malfoy cousin from France, recently recovered from a debilitating illness, explaining away that there'd been no previous mentions of her because she'd not been expected to survive and they were trying to spare the family the emotional trauma of speaking about her. It had taken Hermione & Astoria a little time to come up with that. Though, Hermione had been in the awkward position of having to explain to Astoria what she meant when she once clumsily referred to Hugh as Patricia's emotional support Muggle. The couple was residing peacefully in one of the darker wings of the manor.

Draco and Astoria returned to the Greengrass Estate after their 'spontaneous getaway' to continue planning their wedding. Hermione was chagrined to realize that she and Draco were now friends, though she and Astoria spoke frequently.

_As for Hermione and Lucius..._

"Remind me why we keep coming here?" Mr. Malfoy groused as he gracefully dropped himself to lay back on Hermione's bed in _her_ house.

"Privacy?" Before he could point out they had plenty of privacy in _their_ wing of the manor, she tacked on, "Here I can walk 'round the entire house _nude_ if I want."

His brows shot upward, but he kept his expression cool, if a bit curious, as he asked, "Is this a thing you want to do often?"

"Maybe." She smiled. "Oh, by the way, Astoria told me they're planning on an evening ceremony now."

"So you three can attend? Thoughtful, considering how much of a stir it'll create when I walk in with Hermione Granger on my arm."

Miss Granger snickered and let herself collapse on her back beside him. "Next time we return to the manor, Patricia would like your help."

"With?"

"She wants to find her grandmother, Allyria. She said Astor never considered searching, but... she's still out there, somewhere."

"Makes sense he wouldn't have looked," Lucius said with a sigh. "Probably didn't want anyone in his life he'd feel had control over him."

"That's a good point, I hadn't consider that." Hermione's gaze roved the ceiling. "Also, she um, she asked again about... well, about _our_ plans."

Turning onto his side, he rested his elbow on the bed and propped his chin against his palm. Looking down at her, he echoed, "Our plans?"

"Well, about, you know, the fact that you're human and I'm not. We've no desire to be away from each other, but we can't go on forever like this. I mean, I adore you, but you're no spring chicken."

"Rude," he said in a scoffing tone.

"Seriously, though." Laughing, she went on. "I'm not asking for tomorrow or even next week, but we should have some idea of how we want to approach this. I mean..." She swallowed hard as she considered the question she had to ask. "Do you even want to become like me?"

"In truth, when this started, I'd have been against the idea. But now, after everything I've witnessed from you, Patricia, Hugh—Merlin knows, _not_ Astor? Yes. However, I have one condition."

She sighed, tipping her head to one side as she reached up, opening the collar of his robes. "Let's hear it."

"Give me one year. One year as a human, and we get away from England for a while. Go see other places."

"What? Like a trip around the world?"

"No." He held her gaze steadily. "A trip to all the places you've been. I want to see all the things you did before you became a vampire."

Hermione smiled. She was sure if her heart still beat, it would've skipped just then at the sentiment. At the idea of sharing something like that.

"Okay." Her fingertips trailed along his throat and he gave a delicious shiver in response. "I'm still thinking over what I'm going to say to Harry. He's going to have an easier time with the fact that I'm a vampire than he will with the idea that I'm dating a Malfoy."

"I leave that conversation to _you_ , Miss Granger." Though 'dating' was a very mild way of describing their relationship, he understood the need to downplay their dynamic.

She weighed his words, realizing that they had never discussed the way they addressed one another. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Hmm?" His eyes had drifted closed and he remained still, enjoying her touch.

"We address each other so formally, despite how intimate we are with each other. Does that seem strange to you?"

"No." He grinned, reaching around her blindly to sink the fingers of his free hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head. "I think I've always just considered it something that was, I don't know, simply 'us', I suppose. Why? Does it seem strange to you?"

Hermione held back a laugh. That sounded near-exact to how she'd explained it to Patricia when she'd asked. "No."

"Good. But you're hungry, I can tell, so enough chatting." He lifted her head, bringing her mouth to his throat. He went on, his tone warm, affectionate in that way that was meant for her, alone. "Go on, then, Miss Granger. Bite me."

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed taking this 'ridiculous' journey with me over the last 126 days. Hard to believe it's over.


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